Empire's Son II
by blank101
Summary: Sequel to Empire's Son. As Palpatine's Empire crumbles, Luke retreats to a grim self-imposed anonymity in the galaxy's Rim planets. But he cannot outrun his past, and Imperials and Rebels alike are searching for the last Sith, their motives very different. .
1. Chapter 1

.

.

.

* * *

.

Here we go - the sequel you never thought you'd see! ;P

Just to mention, I never thought you would either - although the end is written, the last few chapters  
leading up to it aren't, yet. Hopefully I'll be able to write faster than I post, but if there's the occasional dropped week, you'll know why.

For those who like to know the greater story scheme, this completed story is running at 33 chapters, and as ever, I'll be posting every other week.

I should also point out that this story is un-beta'd so any mistakes are mine, mine, mine.

.

.

.

Since I've thrown people in other stories by not mentioning this up-front, I'd like to state that

 **This is a sequel!**

.

You really need to read the first story, named **Empire's Son** , _before_ you read this one. Trust me, it will make zero sense otherwise!

Plus, hey, you get to read a completed story and decide if you want to stick around for the sequel :)

Apparently I can't even link to another of my own stories within this Fanfiction site any more as that would be

a blatant abuse of the system (!?) so I'm afraid you'd have to go to my

bio page and look up the Empire's Son story there.

.

.

I'd also like to give a huge shout-out to my long-time friend Kataja, who's reading through and egging me on at the mo.

We've made it our mission to do this to each-other, so go read her fab stuff and comment (look her up under Author in

the search box), and then she'll write some more!

.

That's it. Hope you enjoy!

.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **EMPIRE'S SON II**

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER ONE**

.

.

Luke folded his hand when the Duro next to him threw his own chip-cards down in disgust. He knew for a fact that he had the best hand at the table, but he'd already won five games tonight—ones when there'd been enough credits in the pot to make it worth his while—and he didn't like to win too often. People tended to remember how often you'd won rather than whether you'd won the big pots, he'd found, so he was in the habit of regularly throwing games these days, if the stakes didn't rise fast enough. It didn't do to be the one who always aggressively pushed the pot up either; you got a name for yourself that way, and the one thing every card-sharp grifter could do without, was a reputation.

He could have made more on higher stakes tables of course, but he never sat at the big tables. People were also more likely to remember you if you sat at the big tables, and he preferred to ply his particular trade among the safe anonymity of lesser games in less prestigious cantinas. With a little patience you could eke out a living at the fringe of any spaceport, and no-one was any the wiser. Wasn't much of a living, but then compared to his life to date, Luke figured it didn't have to be.

It wasn't that he lacked the skills to move up the ladder a little. He'd grown up under the harsh and readily-critical eyes of the Emperor himself, and Indo—the Imperial Viscount who Palpatine had charged with Luke's education on Coruscant from the age of eleven—had accomplished his task with ever-efficient zeal. So Luke spoke the eight most common languages fluently, could fly anything from a mid-sized freighter down to a TIE Interceptor or a swoop, could navigate, had a sound knowledge of quantum mechanics, AI, general programming, flight system mechanics, and could kill a man twice his weight, silently and with his bare hands—even without the Force.

But despite these being routine prerequisites for his old life in the Imperial Ubiqtorate, it turned out that there wasn't a lot of demand that particular skill-set in the real galaxy outside of the Imperial palace's lofty walls…particularly when you were trying to live your life below the official radar. Well, aside from smuggling, bounty hunting and general 'heavy', of course, none of which he had any particular interest in, having spent most of his life serving the other side of the law enforcement fence, so to speak. Plus the last thing a trained Sith assassin needed was someone egging him on.

And also, as it turned out—since in his old life everyone had acted as if these were normal skills for any sixteen year old—the ability to do such things for someone of his age and not much over shoulder-height to the average man, wasn't as common as he'd just naturally assumed.

He leaned back as the Dug opposite gathered the chip-set metal cards and shuffled them inexpertly, pursing supple lips below his wet snout in concentration as Luke made a quick glance around the cantina out of habit, as he fingered his black-dyed hair back from his eyes. Black was still relatively new; it had been fair two months ago—more so than his natural color—and his now brown eyes had been green. But he made a habit of changing them with each new planet he wound up on, and this time black had been the nearest packet on the shelf.

Not that anyone was looking for him. But the death of both the Emperor and Vader at the Imperial Drydock near Corsin, at the hands of the Rebellion—aided, ironically enough, by ex-Imperial pilot Han Solo, the one person whom Luke had actually believed he could trust—had still thrust Luke into a very different world. One where his Imperial connections would have gotten his throat cut down some dark alley at the first opportunity…very likely after a brutal beating first, because a lone ex-Imperial officer, even a rogue one, was just too good an opportunity to miss. Though they'd have had to work quickly, if they wanted to get to Luke before the Ubiqtorate, Imperial Intel, the navy, the army…and pretty much anyone else of any rank in the Empire, had they known Luke had survived. Which right now, they didn't. Right now, the Empire had not surprisingly listed everyone at the site of the Emperor's assassination as deceased, their remains lost when all the Star Destroyers docked on Corsin deep-space platform had been destroyed in the chain-reaction of explosions which had robbed the Empire of it ruler and its second-in-command, in one fell swoop. And given that, even at sixteen years old, Luke's sole task had been to protect an Emperor who had been assassinated, he felt no pressing need to return.

He'd woken up about an hour and three lightyears from the explosion, bundled into a shuttle by his f— by Vader, in some misguided attempt at…what? Luke didn't even know. He knew that Vader had found out just minutes before that the youth he'd persecuted mercilessly was his son, though what had been going on inside Vader's head when he'd wrestled Luke into unconsciousness to load him onto a shuttle, then gone after Palpatine—the man who had lied to them both, having known the truth since Luke had arrived on Coruscant aged seven, believing himself the son of Bail and Breha Organa—Luke would never comprehend. Vader had known that a Rebel freighter loaded with explosives was just minutes away from impact with the Star Destroyer that he, Luke and Palpatine were onboard—had actually told Luke that, then had refused Luke the comlink to warn their Master.

An act of revenge, for Palpatine's deceit? Blind fury, at being lied to and manipulated by the man he'd helped to put in power? Vader had never bothered to tell him.

Just occasionally, when he thought about it, he dared to hope that it had been some brief, once in a lifetime flare of protectiveness… But given his abusive and explosive relationship with Vader up to that very minute—given the fact that even knowing the truth they had still met with lightsabers in their hands, Luke sent to kill Vader by Palpatine, and Vader more than willing to use force to further his own private intentions—Luke had nothing with which to back up that unlikely theory. So he'd turned his thoughts away, not willing to hope even now, when all hope was safely spent. He'd learned his lessons well.

He'd woken alone and disorientated at the edge of the Rim systems, still suffering badly from the effects of the overdose that Han had used in his attempt to get Luke away from the doomed Corsin Drydock. Woken in a ship whose controls had been carefully scuppered by someone who knew what they were doing. Not sufficient that they weren't repairable, but enough to leave Luke adrift for several days as he'd made the necessary repairs, listening over long-range incoming comms as everything he'd known had fallen slowly to pieces. His Master and Vader—to all intents Palpatine's only logical successor—dead, the Empire floundering, the Rebels gaining ground as people whispered then spoke then shouted openly of insurrection. A chain reaction that had flared through the Rim systems and pushed in as far as parts of the volatile Colonies.

By the time he'd had the drive systems and outgoing comms working again, he'd already realized that returning wasn't an option.

He'd destroyed the Imperial shuttle at the first stop, on some forsaken backwater Rim world he'd managed to coax the cross-wired drive systems into reaching. It had markings and internal OS codes which would have identified it as belonging to the Emperor's Star Destroyer _Conqueror_ if it had been recovered, so he'd stripped it of anything he could sell then rigged it with onboard explosives, abandoning any ID he'd had with it before trudging two days across an unknown wasteland on some barely-populated planet, to reach what passed for civilization in this part of the galaxy. And having finally reached it, he'd realized something profoundly important…

He had nowhere to go. His life—his entire life, as he'd known it—was over.

Had Palpatine been alive Luke wouldn't have even hesitated in returning…well, maybe that wasn't quite true, but the sense of duty that had been hammered into him from childhood would have prevailed, he knew that. But Palpatine was dead, and Luke's loyalty had always been to the man and not his Empire. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to return to.

Which didn't mean that he had a viable alternative.

It had taken him three hungry months to find out that there was one thing that he could do, completely below the radar and for which a youthful, innocent face was a positive boon; sabacc. In every spaceport in every city on every planet in the Rim, there were at least a hundred games going down. For someone who'd had quantum mechanics and pure math drilled into him with one-on-one lessons twelve hours a day, seven days a week, calculating the odds was easy—even counting the cards wasn't that hard. For someone who could read people's minds, neither was even necessary. Sometimes, just for the hell of it, he didn't even bother using the Force for a whole session. Then it became two sessions, then three…and as time had gone by and he'd spent long runs of silent, empty nights laid on a string of grubby beds in grimy rooms, he'd had a long time to think hard on that…on why. He stayed away from it entirely now, other than passive awareness, which he couldn't avoid—though if he could get enough spice into himself without passing out, even that could be pushed back to a whisper which clung to the edge of dark dreams.

And in his waking hours he made the rounds of dark cantinas, playing sabacc. If you stuck around the spaceports there was always a steady stream of new faces who thought they saw easy pickings in the form of a seventeen year old kid with credits on the table. That had its down side too, of course; you were always having to prove to disgruntled losers just why it was inadvisable to try to retrieve their credits the moment you headed out of the cantina and down the dark streets in the early hours of the morning. And occasionally, if there was any kind of syndicate in port that you hadn't spotted, you had to be prepared to take a beating rather than draw too much attention to yourself and your abilities. But then Luke had learned to roll with the punches long before he'd fallen back on this particular dismal existence.

And you could only stay in any one place for so long, anyway. The faces at the tables kept on changing, but the regulars in the shadows of the cantina and behind the bar started getting a little too curious. You couldn't win too much, or if you did, you had to be prepared to move on within a day or so. He'd bought himself a few good quality ID's, but face-match technology was face-match technology, and no amount of iris-dying or cuts and colors of hair changed the points-average triangulation of his facial features. The safest thing to do was to stay below the radar, out in the Rim systems.

On the plus side, with the Rebellion gaining support to the point that outlying planets were actually openly declaring themselves independent from Imperial rule without even so much as a blaster raised, confirming whether there had been any survivors of the Corsin Drydock catastrophe—aside from Vader or the Emperor himself—was so far down the beleaguered Imperial military's priority list as to be non-existent. Which was just as well, because if they'd found him, they would have had some pretty searching questions as to why he was alive when the Emperor he'd sworn his life to protect, wasn't. And when his answers weren't the ones that they wanted to hear, Luke knew from his own execution of standard Imperial procedure that he wouldn't even have made it out of the interrogation cell to stand against some wall before they shot him.

All in all, not a great incentive to return.

On the other hand, out here in the sticks where the Rebel Alliance was gaining a serious foothold, it didn't do too well to be known to have been as closely associated not simply with the Empire but with the Emperor himself, as Luke had. In fact the way things were going, since the assassination he'd suddenly found himself with the kind of past that could get him put up against a wall and shot on either side of the fence—always a sobering thought to start every day with.

Which was why he'd found that the best course of action was to get non compos mentis by noon. And though he occasionally fell back on 70 proof, his preferred method remained spice—though it took more, these days.

Except that…Luke paused, studying his own thoughts as he eyed his sabacc cards. For days now, _something_ had been itching at the corners of his dimmed awareness. Some sense of…what? Something closing, someone searching…for him. It whispered occasionally as he surfaced from the numb silence that only spice could offer, that half-heard scratch whose origin he could never quite lock down. Sometimes it seemed benign, other times assertive. Aggressive, even. It had been there for months, and though he'd always had some sense of staying ahead of it, it seemed, of late, to be closing in…

.

.

.

.

.

Leia Skywalker stepped off the ramp of the scoutship and onto dry, dusty soil that reminded her of home—but here the dust was a dark, mossy green instead of the golden, sun-baked sand of Tatooine. She glanced about as Han stepped past her, kicking at the loose soil as he looked beyond the dilapidated hollow in the ground that passed for a landing platform around here, and towards the close cluster of hunched, single-storey buildings, a local township that had formed around the warren of landing platforms and lock-up storage bays, likely none of which were legal.

Lifting and resettling the blaster he'd taken to wearing in a fast-draw holster at his hip, he glanced back to her. "Cantinas?"

"Cantinas," Leia nodded.

They'd followed Luke's trail for months now, whenever they had time or an opportunity, whilst moving with the Alliance from Rim-world planet to Rim-world planet, looking to stabilize newly-liberated systems or drum up fresh support for the Rebel Alliance.

It wasn't as hard as it had once been. Nine months after Palpatine's death the Empire remained locked in its own internal struggle for leadership as a loose conglomerate of high-profile Moffs sought to hold it all together whilst striving to ensure they ended up on top of the pile. The late Emperor hadn't exactly been one for delegating responsibility, and aside from…from her father, Vader, there had been no-one else who had the universally recognized right to step into Palpatine's role. Grand Moff Tarkin would have been the only other stand-out candidate, and his demise onboard the Death Star just months before the Emperor himself had died, removed that safety net. So the Empire had floundered within its own internal competition for ultimate power, and still did so almost a year after Palpatine's death, giving the Alliance endless uninterrupted opportunities to seek support, especially in the outlying systems.

And it was here, too, that Leia's brother had fled, burying himself among the disaffected who lived on the fringe of any society, particularly out in the Rim, where even Imperial law had only ever been intermittent.

She'd picked his trail up at Tatooine, where he'd sent her his one and only communication to let her know that he'd survived the Alliance attack that had killed his Master, Palpatine. He'd been as elusive as ever but Han, having originally met her brother when he'd been assigned to Luke as an aide in the Imperial palace, knew Luke well—far better than Leia herself—so he had a knack for rooting out the kind of places that Luke would have fallen back on, and for reasoning out his actions and direction when he moved on. And slowly, a pattern had begun to form; a template for her brother's life, now. Vague stories of a gambler would crop up, not much more than a kid, who drifted into some out of the way Rim town on any available transport with nothing more than a scuffed hold-all and the clothes he stood up in, and somehow managed to cajole his way into a few games of sabacc with what little credits he had…

He'd take a room somewhere quiet and keep to himself, staying for a month or two, careful not to play too often at the same cantina. At seventeen he was young enough that people noticed, but still, he left a hard trail to follow. It was Han who first suggested that they check out the local spice dens and dealers, much to Leia's surprise. But sure enough, the moment that the unknown gambler started upping his wins, the spice would follow…and every time, he made a few too many enemies along the way. Fights would ensue. Sometimes the unknown gambler was sober and spice-free and he'd trounce all comers. Other times, he wasn't so lucky. He didn't seem to care. Eventually, he'd drift on to the next spaceport on the next planet, travelling ever further out to the very edge of the Rim worlds, forever running…

But now and again, as they had today, Leia and Han would get a lucky break and find out that he might be close. To date, they'd always petered to nothing as Luke had moved on before they'd pinned him down. But this time...this time they were so close she could _feel_ it. She couldn't sense his presence, of course; even now Luke was far too wary to ever slip so completely, old habits too ingrained. But something diffuse and elusive whispered at the very edge of her awareness, and it drew her on like a siren.

"This is it." She turned to Han, grabbing at his wrist as her heart pounded. "He's here, somewhere. He's here, on Rishi."

.

.

.

"You want to get something to eat?" Luke asked without turning, raising his voice to be heard over the asthmatic air con unit.

Sat to the head of the bed—the only place to sit in the cramped room—he was using a small pocket knife to scribe into the cracked varnish of the bedside cabinet. Crowded amongst other scratched sketches, it was Capellan script, so stylized as to be almost unreadable. He remembered the original artwork, painted in bold strokes of moss green onto a huge canvas. Remembered sitting before it where it had hung on the wall of his room, bloodied and bruised from yet another run-in with Palpatine for some perceived misstep, and translating the words for Han. At the time, he'd believed that Han could grasp their relevance in the life forced upon Luke since childhood by his Master… turned out he'd been wrong. Or maybe not; certainly Han's actions had eventually forced Luke into living those words to their utmost.

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to stare at the carved words a second longer…

 _Seek Solitude_

With a dry laugh he stabbed the knife into their center, rolling back onto the bed to stare at the stained ceiling of… whatever the hell cantina he'd rented digs over this time; he couldn't remember. Imperial, that was it; The Grand Imperial. It had made him laugh. It was a decrepit, tumble-down little four story place squeezed between a rent-by-the-day storage facility and a derelict eaterie, on the outskirts of the local spaceport. If Palpatine had seen it he would have had it razed to the ground in outrage.

But it was safe, even if it wasn't that clean. The rooms had good locks and private 'freshers, and that made it a palace, these days.

"I gotta head out." Her voice was distant, drifting through the door from where she stood in the small prefab 'fresher, smudging kohl around her eyes. "I'm working tonight."

He rose as she spoke, walking forward to lean on the jamb. "Where do you work, again?"

She looked at him skeptically. "You really wanna know?"

"No." No point in lying. "I was just making conversation."

He was ninety-nine percent desperate for her to leave. She'd been here three nights now, and that was two longer than he let most stay. He'd let her because she seemed less inclined to want to believe that this was leading somewhere. Because she had his habits, and was just as screwed up in her own way as he was, so she didn't judge him. Let her stay because sometimes, his own dismal existence got to him so much that even the spice didn't knock it back. She'd smiled at him in some cantina where she was serving, and asked him what he'd be doing with the credits he'd won that night…and what the hell, he didn't have anything else to do with them. You could always find someone willing to spend whatever you had—he'd learned that long before he'd left Coruscant.

But now he just wanted her to leave. He knew how to be alone; this just made him uneasy. Ninety-nine percent of him wanted her to leave…but some small, suppressed sliver was desperate for her to stay, because he knew—he _knew_ —that eventually, if he was alone, the dreams would come.

Sometimes they were predictable; old memories sharpened to painful precision by the Force; moments when his Master had turned on him with brutal malice, nothing held back, his rage loosed without compunction on a boy of eight, ten, twelve—it didn't matter. It never had. The dread of that first moment, that instant when his Master reached out, incensed, hands grasping, lips curled back in a brute snarl, and Luke had no idea what he would do; how bad it would be this time. And Force help him if he flinched back; that incurred the worst reprisals of all. The ones that never seemed to end. Or worse, they finally would, leaving him huddled on the floor, gasping and dazed as his tormentor stalked away…then whirled about, returning to inflict one more round of vindictive fury—

and Luke would shock awake, already curled up in defense, arms about his head, whole body tensed against the next incoming blow.

Other times…other times there was no specific moment, no sharply-remembered strike. Instead a particular acuity would come over him, and it was as if his Master was actually in the room with him in that moment…right there, but stood unseen behind him, spouting rage and wrath with such vehemence. Yet not a word could be heard in these surreal moments, the silence itself a scream, profoundly disturbing. A judgment which found him wanting, his failure crushing. So absolutely real were these dreams, so acutely intense, it seemed that if Luke had opened his eyes and turned, his Master would be there, bellowing into Luke's face, lips curled back from wasted teeth, ocher eyes glowing in bitter frenzy. So potent were they that he'd scrabble wildly back as he woke to stare about some grim, grubby little room without seeing, chest heaving, heart pounding. Have to rise to check the locks and turn every light on to dispel the shadows before he sat on the edge of his tousled bed, chiding his own stupidity as he trembled, the remnants of the dream still screaming inside his head…

Until eventually he'd reach for the one thing which silenced it, and spice himself into numb oblivion. The only way he could leave the nightmares behind.

Then he'd wake up, and start all over again.

.

.

.

.

.

Leia leaned across the cantina bar, careful to keep her arms from the rings and puddles that ran into each other across its surface, unwiped.

"So he was here? How long ago?" She was pushing, she knew, but whilst the bartender had little to no interest in her problems, he seemed to have even less in protecting his regular patrons, so was answering more out of boredom than anything else.

"Few days, maybe."

"Does he come in often?"

"Every third night or so. He plays the tables."

"Sabacc?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know where he's staying?"

The man straightened slightly, and Leia could sense that she'd crossed the line between what was permissible, and what could easily be bounty or law enforcement. Her hand, resting on the stained bar, made a subtle arc, first two fingers outstretched as she focused fine tendrils of the Force at a mind so easy to influence that she could have done it in her sleep. "Do you know where he's staying?"

"…no…no, I don't know where he's staying."

"Does anyone here?"

"…no, nobody here."

"Other cantinas then—which others does he go to?"

"…the Shakedown…the Borehole…the Black Nova…" He trailed off, eyes unfocused; he'd run out of answers for her.

"Will he be here tonight?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"Which cantina, then?" You had to prompt every single word.

"…Borehole…probably the Borehole. Maybe the Shakedown."

"Leia."

She turned at Han's voice.

He was stood in the shadows close to one of the booths, where he'd walked in his casual sweep of the room as they'd entered—still the soldier, nine months after he'd thrown his lot in with the Rebel Alliance. His eyes were on the stained surface, and she walked quickly over, drawn by the tightness of his voice. Looking down, she followed his gaze…

Drawn into the ring-stained surface, almost lost against a mass of intermixed marks from long years of usage, was a fast, rough sketch of a woman, head tipped back, eyes wide in fear.

"His mother," Han said, then quickly added, "Adopted mother. Breha Organa."

She knew the story, recounted by Han in husky, outraged tones. Knew that Palpatine had ordered Bail and Breha Organa to be executed whilst they were knelt in front of an eleven year old Luke, the ultimate punishment for some perceived misstep. The image—that exact image of Breha in that moment—had remained carved into Luke's memories into adulthood…how could it not? That, and hundreds more, he scratched and sketched onto any surface at random as they occurred to him, with obsessive frequency. A map of his mind… and a trail of breadcrumbs to follow.

Running her fingers over the image, she looked to Han, more sure than ever. "He's here right now, on Rishi."

.

.

.

.

.

Slouched in a chair to one of the five sabacc tables at the back of the Black Nova, Luke stared at his cards without really seeing, mind straying. The spice he'd smoked earlier in the day had worn off and that vague, looming sense had begun to solidify at the back of his mind once more. But far stronger right now, in the semi-darkness of the grubby cantina, the vision that had driven him to turn to the spice this morning tried again to break through. It came more often these days, so much so that occasionally it sliced into his waking hours. Always the same; that same vision he'd recounted to his Master on Coruscant a year earlier. The same dark corridor beneath a mountain, the sound of bubbles in air, the whole surreal scene wrapped about with an unspoken accusation so loud that at night, alone, it would jolt him awake, four steps from his bed before he realized it. He shook his head, willing it clear and dragging himself back to the moment before the vision could pull him down.

Moving uneasily in his chair he looked to his chip-cards, toying with folding a good hand; too soon after his last win. He didn't like this. Didn't like it at all. Somehow, as the night's players had ebbed and flowed about the table he'd sat at, he'd ended up in a big game. Glancing to the door he considered cutting for the night and heading to the Shakedown, uneasy again as that sense of something closing gnawed at the edge of his attention…

"Spare seat?"

Luke turned and lifted his head to look up at the dark-skinned human male who flashed a self-assured grin. He was better dressed than most, more self-possessed, with easy humor in his smooth voice. He was also looking to win some serious money tonight, Luke could see it absolutely.

He opened his mouth to object, but the big Duro to his right him rapped its knuckles on the table in its species' version of a nod as it growled, "You got the credits, you can take the chair."

Luke looked back to his chip-cards, ill at ease; more credits on the table. He should bow out in a game or two. Fold out of play and head on to the next cantina. He'd take just one more win and call it a night…

.

Nine games on, he was still sat at the table. He'd found a battered spice stick in one of the pockets of the scuffed hide jacket he wore, and stupidly, he'd lit it. Never spice up and gamble, otherwise you did stupid things, like stay sat at the table as the stakes rose and the players dropped out, and worse…worse, you started fumbling round for another spice stick.

The urbane gambler—Calrissian, he'd claimed his name was—had naturally taken the opportunity offered, and whispered something to the Twi'lek server with a half-grin and a quick wink. She'd disappeared, and when she came back it was with another two spice sticks. His pleasure, Calrissian had said, as he produced a flare-lighter and held it out with a steady hand.

Luke probably looked like easy pickings to him—hell, he'd think the same of anyone else who was stupid enough to smoke spice and gamble at the same time. They may as well just throw their credits up in the air and walk away.

Except of course, Luke knew, as he nodded and lit the spice stick, and felt his body drop down a notch as his heart pounded and his thoughts numbed…unlike everybody else, he didn't actually have to succumb. Unlike everyone else, he could clear the effects of this small amount of spice out of his system in one minute flat. He didn't, not yet—waste of spice—but he could, when he felt like it.

Calrissian went back to his game a happier man, concentrating on the Duro and the Dug now, figuring that Luke wasn't even in the running any more, save a resource to strip dry.

Luke smiled and looked back to his chip-cards, which were blurred just slightly, now. He really should do something about that...in a few minutes time.

.

" _Kuso_." Luke spat the curse, aware from the overconfident bet from the Duro to his right that it had improved its hand on the tilt of the chip-cards as the central console had once again randomly changed their values. The Dug had already folded, and for a second Luke hesitated, allowing everyone to see it, before he threw his credits in to match the bet. Let them decide whether it was a play; whether he had a good hand or a bad one.

Sat opposite him, the dark-skinned gambler spoke without looking up, voice casually conversational as he threw in his stake. "You're a long way from home."

Luke glanced over. "What?"

"You just cursed in Coruscanti," the sharp gambler observed.

Luke feigned interest in studying his cards, his growl more of a challenge than a question. "Do I sound Coruscanti to you?"

It hadn't been that hard to lose his accent—he'd been taught three by some prissy protocol droid in linguistics classes, in preparation for his life as an Emperor's Hand—so to be called for his unthinking curse was galling.

"No," the gambler allowed, looking to quietly size his opponent up. "But people generally curse in their home language."

The Duro dealt the final round as Calrissian spoke, and everyone paused, eyes on the central console…but it didn't loose the random electronic pip that indicated it had changed any of the cards' face values yet again. With the briefest pursing of its mobile lips, the Duro pushed the pot a little higher with a fifty-credit raise. Wasn't quite so very confident now, it seemed.

Both Calrissian and Luke held their gazes on him for a few seconds, and each knew that the other was mentally reassessing…then their narrowed eyes met.

"If you're looking to throw my game," Luke said, "you're gonna have to come up with something a little more inventive than random guesses at my home planet."

"Hey, not my problem who or where you're running from. Just making conversation." The gambler flashed that smooth grin. "Make the evening go a little faster."

Luke smiled thinly. "Oh I'm sorry, are we Rim-dwellers boring you? How about this—I raise five hundred." Beside him, the Duro jolted straight at the strength of the challenge. Luke's eyes didn't move from Calrissian's. "Little more interesting for you now?"

The gambler tipped his head, that easy smile intact. "And I'm supposed to assume that I hacked you off sufficiently to force a reckless bet from you, so I'd meet it, right?"

Neither even bothered looking to the Duro; the game was with each other.

Calrissian threw his cards in, face down. "I'll fold."

With a loud, guttural grunt of frustration, the Duro did likewise, hoping to stay alive by following his fellow player's hunch.

" _Kerarasae_ ," Luke said with a brief grin: _spoilsport_ , in Coruscanti.

He threw his cards face down to the table as he reached out to take the pot that Calrissian had relinquished, without ever showing the garbage hand he'd held. Sometimes you had to have the nerve to play to your own tells as much as your opponents. And if you did, you sure as hell didn't show your cards afterwards. If Calrissian had wanted to know Luke's form that much, he could have put his credits on the table and forced Luke to turn his cards…but he hadn't.

It wasn't often that he chose to buy himself out of a mistake by raising the pot, but he'd wanted to know if Calrissian was the type to try to do the same, if he had a little attitude thrown at him. As it was, the man'd had the calm under fire and the self-possessed poise to back down—all be it on the wrong hand of cards.

This could get interesting.

.

People began watching as the stakes rose more meaningfully over the next two games, something else that Luke would have normally shied away from. But tonight he let it be, taking a final, long pull on the stub of the spice stick before he dropped it to the floor. So he was still comfortably mellow and therefore, in retrospect, embarrassingly inattentive when a man staggered unevenly forward and lifted his hand to point at Luke, drunk enough to speak too loudly. "I know you—you're Ubiqtorate!"

The atmosphere in the bar instantly cooled by degrees as faces turned, drawn by the drunken man's loud accusation. Ubiqtorate were the hidden face at the very top of the Imperial Intel machine, the pinnacle of State power, disliked even by their own military for their stealthy, all-pervading influence. They'd been fast and typically ruthless in their move to step into the power void that the Emperor and Vader's death had created, and they weren't particularly fussy about their methods of ensuring that they stayed there, by all accounts—not that they'd ever been that scrupulous about their methods of maintaining Imperial power in the first place. So to invoke the presence of one of their number in a dingy back-room cantina, let alone on a Rebel-allied planet, was tantamount to citing a death sentence. Luke straightened subtly, and in the same moment the warm, all-enveloping cloudiness of the spice fizzed as he purged it from his system, leaving overwrought senses flinching at the fast withdrawal as the man continued to speak.

"You arrested Meck Odom for treason, on Danuta Imperial Base. Just strolled in there and dragged him out of the medicenter in binders, when he'd been shot. I saw you put the cuffs on him!"

Part of Luke's fast-sobering mind was already looking for viable excuses, as the other part wallowed in his own bad fortune. Typical—typical of his luck, that the man should turn up here and recognize him, even in civilian clothes and with black-dyed hair. He didn't even vaguely remember the man; probably some random officer present on the base at the time that Luke had waded in. He'd never really bothered to register the other staff and crew.

This was why they'd always taught him never to let himself be seen. Always stay in the shadows…and generally he'd done so. But he'd taken a particular dislike to the Danuta base commander, who had lied to and obstructed him at the time, so the opportunity to stir up a little mischief and hack the man off whilst offending not just his sense of pride but his standing in front of his men, had been just too tempting. But like every other single thing in his entire life, it was coming back to bite him, now.

"You're drunk," Luke murmured, looking back to his chip-cards.

"You're Ubiqtorate! I remember you!"

"How the hell old do you think I am? I'm barely old enough to be in here legally, and you're telling me I'm Ubiqtorate? You're off your face." Luke kept his eyes on his cards, but when the man, and more importantly the attention of the room, didn't waver, his besieged thoughts finally dredged up a counter-accusation which he said slowly, as if just realizing. "Wait a minute…are you an Imperial? You just said it was an Imperial base—are you Imperial military?"

He had the satisfaction of sensing the attention in the room swing away from himself a little and towards the drunken man, who straightened slightly. "Hey I'm nobody—I was a grunt. You're Ubiqtorate!"

"Please," Luke rasped in dry dismissal. "I'm not old enough to sign up even if I wanted to. And I'm sure as hell not military material, let alone Ubiqtorate. Now get out of my damn face."

He looked down again, aware that the man wouldn't go and that the dispute was now the sole subject of attention for everyone in the room, whether mildly suspicious or just enjoying the show…then he got his first break of the evening. As part of his ongoing drunken sway, the man stepped back a fraction too far and stumbled on something unseen on the dingy cantina's floor—

Instantly Luke reached out with the Force to change the stumble into a fall with serious momentum, slipping the man's legs out beneath him at the same time as he pinned his arm, so that the drunk fell with a shocked, truncated yelp to land with a heavy crack of his skull on the filthy floor. Despite having shied away from any premeditated Force contact for months, it was still nothing at all for Luke to reach into his mind at the same time and twist ever so subtly, so that his accusor was actually out cold before he even hit the ground—though he resisted the urge that fired in that same second to compress the Darkness just a little harder and make sure that the idiot never woke up again. Only, in truth, because it would have brought stormtroopers.

He stared for a moment as everyone else did, as if waiting for the man to rise and continue, before eventually he glanced to one of his opponents, rolling his eyes dryly.

"So drunk he can't even get up," he dismissed casually, looking not at the sharp Calrissian, but at the Duro sat to his right. Always look to the easiest touch first; he'd be the most likely to let it pass, and if one did then others often followed, and let the matter settle without further intervention. Sentient nature. They'd taught him that too, in the endless hours of lessons.

"Ubiqtorate…right." Luke flashed his most youthful grin, leaning back and down into his seat as he dragged his hand through his hair to pull it carelessly back whilst he turned to his cards, knowing that he looked even younger than his age if it wasn't half-covering his face, using that and his slight frame to his advantage. "I look like Ubiqtorate to you?"

He said it casually, as if not expecting an answer, his eyes already back to the chip-cards in his hand as if his thoughts were on the game, the momentary disturbance already dismissed. The Duro stared for a few seconds…then let out a hoarse laugh before looking back to his own cards. The Dug watched a second longer, then glanced to the Duro and did the same, attention returning to the game. Calrissian stared the longest of course… before he too looked slowly away, not so much convinced as not really caring.

Luke forced his shoulders to drop their tension as he stared at his chip-cards without seeing, knowing that this was it. He glanced back up at the remaining players, aware now that he needed to skin everyone here tonight. Subtly—not too quickly—but he needed to mop up before he returned to his rented room and packed. This was his last night on Rishi. Thanks to some drunken ex-Imperial he'd met once for all of ten minutes and never even spoken to, it was time to move on again.

.

.

.

.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER TWO**

.

.

Leia let out a rough sigh of frustration as she looked around the dingy depths of the Shakedown Cantina, before her eyes came back to Han. "He's not coming."

He leaned back into a bored stretch. "No kidding, Sweetheart. I can't believe you took that bartender's word that he might, anyway."

"Not helping."

He glanced about. "This is what I'm reduced to; spending my spare time drinking watered-down brandy from dirty glasses in the back of beyond."

Leia couldn't help but smile. Brought up on the run on an assortment of Alliance ships from the age of eleven, this had been her life as far back as she could remember. She'd long since learned that it wasn't your surroundings, but the company you kept that counted. That was what mattered, and in that, she lived like a queen.

Han…he may have started his life on the wrong side of the tracks, but he'd made the effort to try to dig his way out legitimately, in joining the Imperial Navy. It hadn't quite worked out as he'd planned, mostly because he held to that same rule as Leia about friends versus surroundings—one of the many things that she liked about him. Another was his loyalty to Luke, sufficient that he'd thrown his career away to try to extricate Luke from Palpatine's grip. Again, that hadn't worked out as planned, but that was no fault of Han's.

Even now, he still spent his every spare hour trying to track Luke down. Leia…Luke was her brother; no matter how different their lives had been or the paths they now walked, he was still her brother, the last surviving member of her shattered family. He was also the last Sith in existence, though Han would argue that to his final breath. But the fact remained that, trained from childhood by Palpatine himself, Luke was a threat that had to be contained, for the Alliance to thrive. He'd told her in his one communiqué since Corsin that he had no argument with the Alliance, and simply wanted to be left alone. But she couldn't do that. She couldn't abandon the only family she had, and even had she been capable she knew that eventually the Alliance would want reassurance that Palpatine's prodigy wouldn't have a change of heart and decide to follow in his old Master's footsteps—all the way back to the throne.

Obi-Wan had always said that once you chose the Dark path, you could never return to the Light; it simply wasn't possible. Han had huffed in typical dismissal and pointed out that Obi-Wan met Luke for all of ten minutes—and hardly the kid's best ten minutes, given the fact that at the time Luke had believed Obi-Wan the father who had deserted him at birth, then agreed to see a sixteen year old Luke only to try to kill him. Leia…she didn't know. For all that Luke was her brother, it was Han who had known him closer and longer, and Han truly believed that it had been Palpatine who had held Luke to his downward path. Palpatine alone.

But Palpatine was no longer here…and though Luke had bought Leia's freedom at great personal risk when they had first spoken on Coruscant, then spared her life in a duel despite massive provocation, he'd still done everything in his power to avoid her since—had actively threatened her, should she try to find him.

He was undeniably unstable, erratic and unpredictable. Han had said that time and again, and every stolen moment that Leia had ever spent with her brother had underlined it. Luke's mind and intentions could flip in a single heartbeat, she knew that—had seen him do so in the past. And if it had been just herself and Luke, Leia would have risked all without a second's hesitation…but there was so much more involved. Because he remained unapologetically Sith. Which made him not only her nemesis—the single greatest danger to herself and the near-extinct Jedi—but the same to the fledgling Rebel Alliance, gaining standing for the first time with no Sith to actively repress them. If Luke took up the mantle that Palpatine had trained him for and stepped fully into that role, he could endanger not only himself, not only Leia, but the Alliance and all its intentions—the fate of the galaxy itself.

Once you started down the dark path, once you made that choice, it became your destiny… she had been taught that her whole life. This was a lost cause. Why then, did she feel so desperately driven to try to reclaim the brother she'd never known…and what would she do, when he wouldn't let her?

.

.

.

.

With only Luke and Calrissian left at the sabacc table in the back of the Black Nova, the stakes had slowly risen—and not to Calrissian's advantage. For a while they'd each taken even amounts of the Duro and the Dug's credits, then two games after the Duro had bowed out, broke, and one game before the Dug joined him, Luke had hit lucky with twenty-three. With the base stakes rising as players dropped out he'd taken Calrissian for all of the credits the man had skimmed from the Duro thus far as well as a good stack of his own, and chunk of the Dug's remaining collateral, all in a single hand…and suddenly, he had a lot of winnings sat before him on the stained table.

He'd been contemplating whether both Calrissian and the slowly gathering crowd would let him simply fold out of play at this point, when his opponent had slouched back slightly in his chair…which meant he had a good hand.

It was the perfect opportunity; despite his good chip-cards, Luke would throw the game and lose one hand to him—a good amount but not too much—then bow out, claiming that he felt his lucky streak was gone. Calrissian would let Luke go, because he'd just won a good hand, and the crowds would lose interest, because Luke's outrageous luckystreakhad been broken…and Luke himself would get to walk out of here with enough to buy himself passage on some battered freighter to the next dead-end planet, as well as set him up for a few weeks, until he'd learned the new conventions of yet another series of sabacc dives.

Only suddenly, as Calrissian studied him across the table, the game changed. Maybe the auto-shuffler which sat in the center of the table and automatically altered the face value of a percentage of the chipped cards at random intervals had just transformed Calrissian's good hand into a great hand. Maybe he was looking to maximize his winnings and get the hell out of here himself. Maybe he was better than Luke had thought at reading his opponent, and knew that Luke was searching for an out…but he straightened from that easy slouch and without a change to his expression casually slid his entire pile over to the center of the table, eyes on Luke.

And like every gambler everywhere, Luke felt that cool hand clutch his stomach and squeeze, at the opportunity to clear out his last opponent…or lose, spectacularly.

"For the pot," Calrissian said evenly. "Let's stop dancing around here and play for the entire pot."

Luke hesitated…because he actually had a good hand himself, too. Better than Calrissian's? He genuinely didn't know. Worth the risk? He stared at the gambler, whose lips twitched in the barest of smiles, nothing given away, supremely confident…

"You don't have an array," Luke said with certainty. The hand—an Idiot's Array—finished any game because it took not just the ante pot but the main pot, which had been gradually building.

What Calrissian could have was a card-value of twenty-three; the next best winning hand. But even that was statistically unlikely; most times, the nearest either side to twenty-three took the pot. Plus or minus, though? A positive always trumped a negative…did he have a close positive? Or was he just trying to force Luke to fold with a ridiculous raise, so that he could drain the existing pot back into his own pile with a cash injection of winnings which would put him back in the game? In Calrissian's place, watching his chance dwindle of ever getting back into the game with enough of an ante to make a difference, Luke would have bluffed with the first reasonable hand he'd got.

Heartrate climbing in anticipation, Luke weighed up whether to press the auto-shuffler in the center of the table, which would freeze the chip-cards as they now stood, effectively finishing the game. He hadn't used the Force to read Calrissian's mind—not beyond a latent awareness that the gambler was quietly confident, and the credits piled haphazardly in the center of the table said that without any help. This was fate, pure and simple: a ridiculous risk. It felt good. They always did, blind risks. In a life which had been curbed, controlled and dictated to the nth degree, there was something intensely freeing in simply closing one's eyes and stepping forward. Something truly addictive.

And if there was one other thing his Master had taught him, it was never, _ever_ to flinch…so he coolly counted out a portion of his chips out to match Calrissian's bet, and dropped them on the table without a second glance.

Calrissian looked to the pot, then back to Luke, still trying to read him…which meant that he was just a fraction worried…which in turn, meant that he had a beatable hand. But that smooth half-smile held, confident as ever. That was when he fumbled into the breast pocket of his immaculately-cut suit and pulled out a palm-sized chip-deed, throwing it onto the table.

"Hey, second bid," someone behind Luke said with disgust. "You can't up the ante now."

"Two bids in a round?" another muttered, disgruntled.

Calrissian's eyes stayed on Luke; what anyone else said of the game was irrelevant, and they both knew it. Table rules held in any cantina; that meant that anything that the players at the table let pass, went…and anything you brought to the table with you, you could bet.

"There's a freighter in docking bay nineteen right now. A YT-1300; legit." Calrissian glanced to Luke's winnings, the majority of which were still in front of him even after meeting the bet. "Want to match it?"

Luke hesitated a moment as some distant logic sounded… Stupid; it was a stupid thing to do, to take the bet when Calrissian clearly felt he had a good hand to play. Better to fold the hand and get out of here…but he had good cards!

Maybe it was the spice. Or maybe his Master had been right in his ranting accusations, and occasionally Luke really did do outrageous things purely for the sake of it, when the mood was on him. He glanced to the chip-deed, drawn in; a freighter—independent passage. "What's it called?"

"The _Falcon_ ," Calrissian said calmly, no intention of losing the ship. " _Millennium Falcon_."

Luke smiled; he was in for a disappointment.

"Okay, I call." He pushed his piled winnings—his only chance to get off this dust-strewn planet in one piece before the scuffle that had happened earlier made it to the ears of local law enforcement—into the center of the table. "All in, on the hands we're holding right now."

Having been the one called, Calrissian turned his cards: twenty-two; minus. A brief susurration ran around the waiting crowd; it was a good hand—in fact it was a great hand.

Just not great enough. "Twenty-two," Luke said quietly of his own cards, as he placed them down, face-up. "Positive."

The crowd roared, their anticipation paid off in full.

Both players sat in silence regarding each other, as the tumult heaved around them. Eventually Luke rose, keeping his eyes on Calrissian the whole time as he stacked and lifted the largest denomination piles of credits into his pocket. Then he took the chip that held the deeds. "Are these legal?"

Calrissian's chin rose in mild offence, but despite the fact that he'd lost big-time, he was trying hard to be civil about it. Still, his reply came through a tight jaw. "I landed here on them."

Luke tapped the edge of the deed chip on the table, eyeing the gambler. "You got any more, in other names?"

"No."

"I'll buy them off you."

Calrissian glanced down at the pile, sharp eyes making a rough calculation. Luke reached out his hand to pull the largest pile of remaining rectangular, big-denomination credits into a single stack with a familiar movement borne of too many nights in dives like this. He slid it forward to Calrissian in persuasion. "C'mon, they must be registered to the freighter type anyway, what use are they to you?"

Calrissian looked back to Luke, who tilted his head and gave an open grin. The gambler sighed, and fished into that impeccably tailored jacket to pull out two more registration chips and drop them on the table. As Luke reached out to take them, Calrissian's hand shot out fast as a snake-strike to grab his wrist. Luke froze, his other hand already lifted to the blaster he wore—not his lightsaber, which he also carried hidden beneath his jacket at the small of his back; too distinctive for somewhere this public. But they were left to an uneasy standoff as he remained still, hand resting on his blaster butt without drawing it as Calrissian tensed without once deigning to look down.

Instead he held Luke's eye, voice tight. "Did you cheat?"

Luke made a slow inward turn of his arm that twisted his wrist free from Calrissian's hold, then drew the remaining big-credit chips towards himself and circled his hand, fingers resting on the table about them so that they shuffled into a single pile beneath his palm. Lifting them he pushed them into his jacket pocket before repeating the act, then leaving the rest; small change. If he walked out of here with what he had now and the freighter deeds, he'd be happy. His other hand still resting on the butt of the blaster he wore, he straightened and, pausing to pick up the second spice stick Calrissian had so thoughtfully provided, made a brief glance around the watching crowd, then walked for the exit.

Safely at the door he turned to see the gambler still watching him, jaw set, lips pressed to a hard line, knowing that he'd get an answer.

Unable to stop himself, Luke winked just once. "You know what they say; if you can't spot it, then it wasn't cheating," he said glibly, then brought his hand to his forehead to flick a quick military salute. "Been a pleasure, Calrissian."

He turned and left without looking back.

.

.

.

Walking the empty streets down to the docking bay, Luke frowned as he pulled out the second spice stick Calrissian had provided…he hadn't even realized that he'd pocketed it. It made him laugh dryly; priorities, huh? Alone in a cantina, having made a run of high-stakes wins and with serious credits and the deeds to a starship on the table, he'd apparently taken the time to pocket the spice stick…yeah; always important to get your priorities right.

Not thinking straight tonight anyway, he reflected wryly as he walked the streets toward the spaceport, lighting the spice stick. It wasn't enough that he'd made a big win, he'd had to go and rub it in. Why did he always do that? When he'd successfully extricated himself from a potentially explosive situation, why did he _always_ want to push that little bit further, just to see if it would pop?

He shook his head, taking a long draw on the spice stick. How to make a memorable exit—always advisable for someone trying to stay below the radar…idiot! With the spice starting to leach into his thoughts he let out a laugh into the darkness, alone. But then he was always alone.

By the time he reached the spaceport the spice stick was almost gone, and he was aware of weaving slightly as he walked. He pulled it from his mouth, intending to throw it away…but hesitated. There was barely anything left now anyway—he may as well finish it.

A droid stepped out from the night-cabin and tilted its head. "May I be of service?"

Luke held out the ownership chip that Calrissian had given him. For a second, it occurred to him that the ship might not be there...that there might not _be_ a ship at all. But the droid glanced down, remotely reading it, and nodded briefly. "Will you be leaving tonight, Captain Calrissian?"

"Probably…is there a sentient dock-hand on duty?" Couldn't really get what he needed out of a droid.

The droid nodded, incapable of offence. "Please wait,"

It disappeared, and a minute later a man probably twice Luke's age but roughly the same build stepped out, looking him up and down with shrewd eyes. They both knew why he'd asked for a sentient; you couldn't bribe a droid.

"Yeah?" The man had presumably already made some credit on this ship tonight. Maybe the dock-hand even remembered Calrissian, though if he did it didn't leave him any less willing to hand the ship over to someone else, with a possible bribe in the offing. He ran the card Luke held out through his palm-held reader and walked Luke the short distance to the dock in silence. "Here ya go, fee's paid."

Luke stared as the lights of the small bay fritzed unevenly across a smallish, saucer-style YT freighter which looked more than a little worse for wear. He tilted his head, studying it with trained eyes. First thing; it didn't look like the kind of ship that someone like Calrissian would fly, in comparison to the gambler's dress sense. He'd go for something flashy, something Nubian with smooth lines and sleek curves. This was a working ship, intended to stay below the radar…and from the look of it, it had been working hard for a long time. Second…second, the amount of external pipework and feeds around the rear engines was way over-spec'd, which meant that the engines likely were, too. Third, the guns which were tucked neatly down in their dedicated convex bays to the center of the upper and lower saucers were _way_ bigger than they should be, to Luke's memory of any standard YT spec. Aside from that she was old, she was filthy and looked like she was generally on the very brink of spontaneously falling apart… He liked her. A lot. Enough that he had a grin on his face, as he turned to the dock-hand.

"Actually I need you to move it for me—different berth."

He could have moved it himself, but you never knew, Calrissian might have left a few unexpected surprises in case someone tried to help themselves to his ship—even if they did by some chance have the key-card to unlock it—and Luke would rather be stood outside watching, than in there, experiencing them. He hadn't detected any such subterfuge, but better safe than sorry. Plus this way, he'd have long enough to go back to his digs at the edge of town to pick up his stuff, and still get off of this rock in good time.

In a dead-end port like this, suspect deals and schemes meant that valet transfer wasn't an uncommon request, and the worker nodded as Luke again swiped the deed-chip that Calrissian had given Luke through the small security reader he held, remotely opening and limited-system-enabling the freighter twenty paces away. At the same time, Luke dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of high-denomination credits to drop them into the man's hand. "Make sure it's a quiet berth," he added.

In every port on every planet in every system, dock-hands knew exactly what that meant. The man glanced down then nodded, pleased. "Sure. Bay ninety-nine, South access corridor. It's a long-stay bay, but its empty, so…" He shrugged, indicating just how much disinterest the credits in his hand could buy.

Luke threw the burnt out stub of the spice stick to the ground as he turned to walk out, aware that the spice was making it difficult to simply commit the bay number to memory, as it mingled with and enhanced what was left of the night's casual alcohol intake. " _Millennium_ _Falcon_ ," he murmured as he left the bay, still smiling. Repeating it again out loud, he picked up his pace, aware that he needed to be back here within the hour, and gone from Rishi in two.

.

It was so late that it was almost early as he walked down the quiet back road towards his digs, staying out of the pale glow of the widely-spaced street lights. Blurred by the presence of spice in his system, he still knew that someone was following him—watching him—and he knew they had a sliver of the Force about them, as they sometimes seem able to hide, though at other times they'd induce an almost clumsy gap in his awareness of his surroundings, so that he could sense their cloaked presence as a smudged haze on this inside of his thoughts.

Maybe he should abandon his stuff and head straight back to the spaceport, but he had a lot of credits tied up in the false IDs hidden in his single rented room, and although he had ID on him, if he left Rishi on it, even in his own freighter, he sure as hell didn't want to arrive at his next stop on the same ID. That was asking for trouble.

Still, that nagging feeling that someone was in the shadows nudged him, tightening his jaw. He was regretting having smoked that last spice stick now, aware of its lingering effect in his system. Probably shouldn't have drunk so much either, since he'd known early on that someone was there.

But then the same sense had lingered for days now, closing. He was getting lax, to just let it be. He should have sought whoever it was out, and stopped this on the first day. Or just moved on, as he had in the past, not wishing to draw attention to himself. With the cold air pushing the residual effects of spice and too much drink through his veins, leaving him angry at himself, the unknown stranger and the galaxy in general, Luke turned about on the open street to yell into the near-darkness behind him.

"Come on then!" He opened his arms, resentment fizzing and distilling. "What are you waiting for—come on!"

Nothing happened… Two spacers, a Human and a Weequay further down the far side of the street, glanced about, clearly thinking him insane. Maybe he was.

He waited for a while longer, glaring into the night as the spacers turned abruptly off a side-road, but nothing stirred. Frustrated, he whirled about and set off again, his steps unsteady. He really needed to sober up, just in case they actua—

A heavy weight impacted against the whole of the left side of his body at once, knocking him clean off his feet to skid painfully along the dirt road on his right shoulder, grit digging into the bare skin of his shoulder as his jacket and shirt sleeves ripped away. He twisted as he fell, instantly sober, tucking and rolling onto his knees and into a defendable position as he braced…

No-one was there. Luke scrabbled up, shaking his head to sharpen his senses, aware that it had been a Force-blow which had just sent him sprawling. He turned—

And saw her at the last moment, incredibly fast, cloak fluttering as she came in at a full-on run, dark clothes rendering her little more than a vague shadow. Something glinted for a split-second in the moonlight, and Luke yanked his saber out from under his battered hide jacket as a blaster bolt fired, activating it to catch the bolt near the hilt of his still-igniting blade.

Not a huge jolt, some logical, dispassionate part of his mind thought: stun shot.

Then she was on him, one arm stretched to grab his wrist about his saber and force it outwards as her other arm came round in a wide arc, angled so that the blaster butt was aimed at his head. Luke recoiled at the last second, so that what should have been a blow to the temple that would have knocked him cold instead caught across his shoulder, jarring it enough to prompt a brief grunt. He didn't hesitate, didn't even bother twisting free; his knee came up high as his assailant was pulled in by her unwillingness to let go of his saber-hand, and Luke caught her a heavy blow in the ribs, buckling her over with a gasp.

Taking the brief opportunity he twisted with her and brought his free hand round to catch the wrist that still held that blaster and twist it against its natural movement. With a grunt her hand opened, but as the blaster fell free she had enough sense to jerk her arm in a half-throw, so that it sailed into the darkness.

Luke glanced to it, intending to use the Force to call it back, but the moment that he loosed his hold on his assailant's wrist her hand came in as a head-height punch that forced him to turn back, lifting his arm to block it. It hit his forearm with painful force, but he knocked it aside and, inside her defenses, managed to catch her a fast blow. It was aimed at her neck to wind her, but she was fast and professional enough to twist and bring her shoulder up so that it hit there and deflected up to catch her jaw in a glancing blow, its power spent. She rolled with it like a pro but still went down, keeping her grip on his saber-wrist to try to take him with her—

She was too light, but it was enough to unbalance him, forcing him to take a stumbling step forward to catch himself, bent double by the momentum of her fall as it yanked against his wrist. Her leg came up from where she lay on the dirt and caught him a heavy blow across the side of his head with enough force to light his vision in bright flares. A second kick hit his chin, snapping his head back and dropping him to one knee. He had just enough awareness left to avoid the third, and he threw himself on his assailant, straddling her body, using his weight to knock the air from her lungs in a forced gasp. Her grip on his wrist loosened and Luke yanked his saber arm free. Deactivating the blade he brought it in and pushed the nozzle against her neck as he leaned in to yell into her face.

"Stop it—stop!"

She struggled for a second more, but he pressed the saber tighter, and she knew the fight was over. Still gasping as he blinked his blurred vision into focus, Luke leaned one knee on his attacker's ribcage to hold her still as he reached out and pushed back her hood to yank at the dark, overstitched cap she wore beneath. Her hair spilled out in a loose pool of titian red as she glared at him, fury in her green eyes.

"Brie or Jade," Luke yelled into her face. "Come on, which one? You used the Force to hide yourself—you wouldn't have gotten nearly that close without it, just now. Brie or Jade?"

"… Jade," she gasped at last. "Now get the hell off me."

"Why?"

Something hard and cold pressed against the base of his skull, and Luke turned just slightly to see another woman, her russet hair cut to a short, severe bob, who had used the diversion Jade had provided to simply walk up behind Luke and push a holdout blaster directly to his head.

"Because the other redhead might take exception if you don't," she said grimly.

Grinding his jaw, Luke sat back onto his heels over Jade in the dry dirt. Great: just fantastic.

He'd barely started to turn his head—barely realized that her finger was still tightening—before the bright flare of the blaster slammed him into oblivion.

.

.

.

.

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

.

 **CHAPTER THREE**

.

.

Luke came round slowly, blurred eyes struggling to come into focus as his head pounded mightily. Gradually he became aware that he was sat upright in a hard chair, his head lolled forwards, so that he was looking at his own knees…his own bare knees. He looked a little further in, the dark mass of the tattoo on his chest visible at the edge of his vision, though that wasn't where he was looking; at least they'd left his boxers on. Without thinking he tried to lift his hands, and realized they were tied together about the back of the chair he was propped up in, his ankles bound by military-grade organic steel cables to the chair's front legs…which seemed a bit of overkill, unless the chair itself also happened to be military grade steel, which he doubted.

Across the room, the voices of two women deep in hushed conversation stopped, as one of them murmured, "He's awake."

He lifted his pounding head to stare at them for a few seconds as they turned from searching his clothes, then he let out a rough laugh. "Yeah, this'll sound great back in the cantina— 'So when I woke up, these two redheads had tied me up and stripped me…'."

The woman who'd ploughed into him in the darkness and put up a pretty good fight—Mara Jade, she'd claimed—raised one eyebrow. "Really not helping yourself."

Luke tilted his head to stare through uneven bangs of dark-dyed hair. "Really don't care."

"We know who you are," the second redhead—Brie, presumably—said smoothly. "We have a proposition for you."

Luke grinned irreverently. "Please, go on, this is great for my story; '—and then they propositioned me'."

.

He was coming round enough now to begin to take in his surroundings peripherally, mind working.

The drab, pale gray walls, the fittings in the room, the mesh of the chair; all military, Imperial. If they weren't still working for the Empire, then they at least had access to a fair-sized ship for…ship! The rumble of the deck plates beneath his feet and the vague background hiss of air exchanges all coalesced into the realization that they were onboard a vessel. He strained to glance behind him in search of a viewport.

Brie nodded. "Welcome back to the fold and the fleet. Your spurious little foray into eking out a living in the underside of the galaxy is history. Oh, and unless you have a _very_ convincing story about what happened at Corsin Drydock—how you survived when damn near every other person there including the Emperor you were charged to protect, died—you're under arrest for dereliction of duty, Commander Antilles."

He turned back to face two equally calculating stares. "Yeah, this isn't the ending I wanted this story to have."

.

.

.

.

.

.

He had no idea how long he'd been out this time. After that first, brief conversation they'd given him injection after injection to keep him so, and it shouldn't have worked—not with a Sith—which was why he hadn't resisted the first one. But it seemed that his own body had conspired against him the moment the contents of the next small gas-fired hypodermic hit his bloodstream, and he couldn't work out why…was never awake or aware long enough to pull his thoughts into some kind of order.

His whole existence became reduced to brief, staccato moments of semi-consciousness when he managed to drag himself above the influence of his failing body, aware on some level that it was a little harder every time. And every time, one of the redheads was in the room watching him as he came round, an Em-dee medi-droid stood close beside the angled bed he lay on, taking readings. And every damn time, the moment that the droid confirmed his condition in cool, clinical tones, they would knock him back out.

.

.

He tried to lift his head as consciousness seeped into the void, the muscles of his back and neck stiff and cramped, his ribs and lower spine aching from having been laid for so long, his heart slow and struggling. He was incredibly hot—why was the room this hot?

"…sufficient perfusion to satisfy base levels, ma'am. Cardiopulmonary function and electron transport is adequate."

Brie walked smoothly forward and bent before him as Luke struggled to move his head, partly to look about him, but mostly to ease constricted muscles.

"You're a persistent thing, aren't you?" By the time she'd said it, she'd already pressed the gas infuser to his neck and released its contents with a quiet hiss. His head lolled as he tried to hold it, tried to pull enough focus together to counter whatever they were using. But the drag of drugs, and of something bigger and profoundly stronger, pulled him back down…

.

.

" …but cardiopulmonary function and electron transport remain within acceptable parameters—barely."

He was aware of struggling for breath as he came round this time, the long muscles of his arms and shoulders and stomach and legs trembling, overheated and aching as if he'd run to failure, though he was still laid on the medical bed, flinching against the brightness. Jade walked forward…or was it Brie? The change in light and the sudden increase in noise as she spoke—even quietly—made him physically jump. "Are you awake again?"

The hiss of the gas infuser. Someone leaned forward. Short red hair brushed his forehead a second after cool fingers pushed back his hair…and a kiss, soft and warm and empty. "Sweet dreams."

.

They blurred into one, the two redheads. Both slim and lithe, both casually athletic in the way that professional soldiers always were. Both coolly unmoved. Both fading to drug-infused darkness, the last thing he saw always that after-image of bright russet hair.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Mara Jade stood to one side of the wide, ornate bed, arms crossed before her, aware that they'd have a few more hours before Antilles managed to drag himself above the drugs they'd finally felt confident enough to stop administering. Shira lounged loosely upright across the bed's opposite side, long legs crossed, weight on one hand as she leaned forward to study him.

They'd put him in the most secure—and, incidentally, the most sumptuous—quarters onboard ship before they woke him. Given the lifestyle he'd willingly fallen into, Mara wasn't entirely sure that it would make that much difference, but Shira seemed to think he'd appreciate the return to familiar opulence that the extended suite of rooms represented, and recognize the unspoken promise of possibilities.

Then again, she'd never met Luke growing up, as Mara had intermittently. Plucked from the COMPNOR youth training program at the age of twelve by Lord Vader, Shira Brie's untapped abilities meant that she'd been fast-tracked into specialized training and eventually Imperial Intel, with the express intention of eventually being presented to the Emperor by Vader as a potential Hand. Ironically, the fact that she had been initially instructed by Lord Vader meant that her knowledge of the Force was greater than Mara's, because though Mara had been personally selected by the Emperor himself, her instruction in Force techniques under his tutelage had been considerably less. What she did know, Mara believed she knew to a far higher degree of competence. But it centered around her ability to hear and communicate with Palpatine over great distances in order to better execute his will; by and large, aside from the occasional brief rush of cognizance, she operated on her training and her wit. Still, despite their differing schooling, both were fully operative Hands by the age of sixteen—though Mara knew that neither had received the kind of intensive one-on-one training that Luke Antilles had been subject to.

Only Antilles had benefitted from the privilege of the Emperor's close attention throughout his training. The fact was that despite his constant wayward discipline as he'd grown, it was he alone, of the three of them, who the Emperor had chosen to train not simply as a Hand, but as a Sith advocate.

The man laid before her, gaunt and rangy, chest tattooed and fingernails bitten short, seemed a poor choice to Mara's eyes. But then her master's shrewd gaze and senses always saw past the physical, she knew. Certainly in private conversation with her he had consistently held this man up as a paradigm to be emulated, even if never possibly equaled; a powerhouse of raw ability and connection that Mara had been told she could never hope to match.

To her, right now, he looked like nothing more than another spice-broken vagrant, emaciated and brought low by self-abuse.

Then again perhaps she was discounting him prematurely—perhaps that was his intention. He'd certainly fitted perfectly into his chosen milieu. Without privileged knowledge even she wouldn't have looked twice at him among the countless others who eked out their existence on the fringes of any spaceport, deprived and sickly and malnourished. But none were squandering what he was—all that potential and training, physical and mental.

Yet he wasn't weak; couldn't be. She knew damn well that Palpatine had enforced a lifetime of relentless endurance training to guarantee that—and when under threat on Rishi he had retaliated with impressive expertise despite his physical condition. But now, laid unconscious and comatose, every wired muscle seemed stretched taut over a painfully slight frame, not an ounce of spare weight on him. The spice he apparently poured into his body, the medi-droids had said, taking its toll. Eating him from the inside out.

That was something which would stop right now. There was no room for such failings in an Emperor's Hand.

Eyes on his emaciated frame, her gaze was drawn to the tattoo visible on his naked chest above the heavily quilted cover—not the two small stars to the outer edges of his collarbones, which had been there long enough to begin to lose definition, but the larger one rendered in dark blues and blacks just off-center of his chest, the size of a clenched fist.

She reached out and pushed the coverlet back slightly to see it in its entirety. Over the faceted, emanating rays of a wide, dark blue sunburst was a heart etched in dense black, wrapped about with a ribbon and a thorned vine.

To the far side of the bed Shira tilted her head to read the words inked onto the ribbon in scrolling script. "What does it say?"

"It's Bocce." Mara's casual tone as she identified the language revealed none of the deeper unease that its translation engendered, inciting a brief shiver of portent. "It says _Occus Tor_ : A Black Heart."

.

.

.

.

.

.

… _  
_ _…_ _…_

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _He shouldn't be here, Luke knew._

 _He stood under a dark and roiling sky, the pressure change as the clouds rushed overhead pushing palpably in to press against his throbbing temples._

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _But the vision seeped in around the remnants of the drugs and dragged him into alignment against his will. That recurring background scratch against the inside of his own skull,_ _completely familiar yet somehow removed, a fraction displaced, a shade offset, like a well-known tune in the wrong key._

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _Before him a squat, dour building hunkered low in a barren landscape checkered by the fast-moving shadows of racing clouds. He wanted to turn and run, to scrabble backwards even as something at his back pushed him on._

 _A shout, a yell part frustration, part demand, echoed inside his thoughts, making him flinch… And he was inside, walking through low-lit corridors, heavy with dust. Footprints though; someone had walked this way recently._

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _A secret, long-hidden. Endless halls, dim and unused. He walked with a sense of heavy anticipation, both pulled on and reluctant._

 _Musty corridors, cold and empty._

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _It was an old knowledge, deeply embedded; a brief, agonizing flash of pain and bewilderment. Never do this; never even try._

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _That silent sound, an absolute awareness which lit the air and scorched his senses…couldn't they feel it?_

 _Then he was inside the room. That precise, synchronized tack of technology, that steady, regulated hubbub of air in fluid…and everywhere a dark, intense scarlet. Every surface in this place; in this empty hollow._ _The low babble of bubbles in liquid rippled round the void; the tang of medically sterilized fluid._

 _What was here that he couldn't see? He could see its walls bathed in blood red light, but something… what was here that was withheld? Why?_

 _The voice rose to a shrieking demand, clawing for release._

 _There—it was right there!_

 _But he couldn't see it, couldn't fathom what he was meant to do…only that he should do it, now. It was vital; imperative. Terrifying._

 _His muscles jarred from the need to act, raising his body in a jolt which dragged him_ _a_ wake…

…

The first thing he was aware of was his own breathing, fast and shallow. A vague light filtered painfully through closed lids as they fluttered. He was laid back against a soft surface with a light, warm, even weight resting over him, though the small of his back still ached mightily. Slowly, as the vision ebbed, his gathering thoughts combined available information into the fact that he was laid in a bed, the ever-present hiss of an air-exchange giving away the fact that he was still on a ship somewhere.

It was hard to open gummy eyes, and he had to blink repeatedly, flinching even in the low light as he struggled to focus on the smooth concave arch of a high ceiling, the half-dimmed lights of the large, luxuriously appointed room hidden within a deeply corniced hollow at its edges. Luke turned slowly, looking to dispel the last vestiges of that familiar vision with reality, though his neck muscles sang in protest. As he did so the vague, hazy profile of angled viewsports let him know instantly that he was on a Star Destroyer. His head lolled back to center, and for a few moments he awaited the click of footsteps that would signal his captors…but nothing came. Eventually he rolled awkwardly onto his side, still struggling to bring the world into focus but becoming aware of the size of the room that he was in, the sumptuousness of the fixtures…

Familiar memories fired.

He lurched up and back in the wide bed, backpedalling until his shoulders hit the curve of the deeply carved bed-head. Scrabbling to be free of the smooth, slate gray bed sheets he threw them off as if they burned, adrenaline firing sufficiently through the drag of drugs and exhaustion to launch him upright and off the bed in an awkward, frenzied stagger.

He stumbled backwards until he hit the wall to the side of the bed, his shoulder sliding the wide, dark canvas there to a skewed angle. Turning, Luke lunged for the door, propping himself heavily against its frame and hitting the release several times before his half-aware mind realized that it wasn't responding. Frantic, he rested his hands against the flat of the door and wrenched the Force in with absolute intent, turning it on the door in a blow of massive power which would have ripped any other from its moorings and flung it back from its frame. This one, constructed for this room alone, jolted with a heavy thud, the reinforced walls about it trembling as Luke stumbled back a step from the counterforce of the uncoordinated blow.

He took another step back to catch his weight, drawing in a wider, more potent connection as his hands rose—

And the door slid aside. Jade was stood, braced, ten paces back in the ante-room beyond, her blaster already raised.

Luke didn't even hesitate. He lunged free of the room to slow in the smaller ante-room before her, barely aware of the blaster trained on him. And as suddenly as it had come, the shock-fed adrenaline that had fuelled him waned and he doubled over, feeling his legs tremble as he gasped for breath.

"Antilles?" Because he'd stopped, Jade's voice held more confusion than alarm, but for long moments Luke couldn't form a reply, still gulping for breath.

"…Emperor's…room…" he managed at last, lifting his head just slightly.

The gun lowered a fraction as Jade frowned. "Yes, you're onboard the ISD _Steadfast_. We put you in the Emperor's old suite."

Still bent double with his hands resting on his knees Luke shook his head, his voice broken gasps. "No…not..not there."

"Not there?" There was nothing other than a search for clarity in her voice, and anyway, the last of Luke's strength deserted him as the days of drugs took their toll, and he dropped to his knees on the thick, hand-knotted rug of the ante-room, lungs heaving. Desperate to make her understand, he held it together long enough to shake his head, though a thick, numbing darkness was rendering reality ever more distant as it dragged him down. "Not…back in there."

The last thing he saw was her booted feet as she stepped forward to crouch before him, the blaster loose in her hand…but his body was spent, and he slumped to the side, unable to hold out any longer.

.

.

When he woke again it was easier; he'd clearly been given no drugs in between. He forced his eyes wide and glanced quickly around, but had been moved to a standard guest suite. Stupid; he'd been stupid to overreact like that, but the shock of opening his eyes and finding himself back in that place—in that life—had been a wrenching blow.

He wondered briefly what the hell his captors had made of it…but since his opinion of them was pretty much zero at this point, then their opinion of him mattered even less. The lower the better, in fact; it would make it easier when he decided to leave. He shuffled to sit on the edge of the wide bed, glancing to the ceiling where he knew damn well that surveillance lenses were routinely installed in guest suites, before letting his head drop into his hands. His brain pounded mightily, his stomach cramped painfully, and his whole body shook. His back ached, at the base of his spine…kidneys? He'd like to have told himself that it was solely the result of the drugs they'd been pumping into him for the last who-knew-how-many days, but he knew these symptoms well; he needed spice. Badly.

He lifted his hands to study their shake, trying to judge how long it had been…

The door slid open and Jade walked in to lean back against the console to its right. "You look like hell."

He didn't look up. "Thanks."

She glanced to a side-door within the room. "There's a fresher to your right; make you feel a little more human."

"Oh, so now you're concerned."

Jade straightened slightly. "No, now we want you awake enough that you can actually have a coherent conversation."

"Don't hold your breath."

She looked him up and down. "I'm not. There's a uniform in the dressing room beside the fresher. I'll send for something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten for four days."

Out four days, then. It felt longer—like his body had gone through the wringer, pushed to its limits. He rose and padded towards the fresher, lightheaded. Jade moved slightly as he passed.

"Do you want to know where you are?"

"Doesn't really matter."

She pursed her lips, annoyed at his indifference. But the fact was that though he had no reason to stay, he had no particular reason or need to go either, as yet. They were treating him no worse than he treated himself on a daily basis, and since they clearly weren't about to follow through on the threat of a court-martial, his curiosity was piqued as to what they _did_ want with him. And when he'd found out and it was time to leave, where exactly he was leaving mattered as little as where he was going.

.

She looked him up and down as he came out dressed in the only clothes given him, a Ubiqtorate uniform—or rather, the boots, pants and shirt; the jacket, he dropped onto the bed as he passed. He'd almost put it on…but had shied back at the last moment; too soon.

It wasn't one of his own uniforms, which meant that whichever Imperial faction they were allied with, they probably didn't have open access to the palace on Coruscant—presuming, of course, that his belongings were still in his old quarters there. But he must have grown in the last year, because the standard issue black uniform fitted him now—barely. He was stick-thin, of course; a mix of life on the run and too much spice. But he'd combed his black-dyed hair back and just out of habit, stood a little straighter in uniform.

Jade lifted her chin. "Well at least you look the part."

"We shouldn't walk around in Ubiqtorate uniforms. It alienates the rest of the military, and you need them." It irked him to realize that no matter how unwillingly he was being shoehorned back into his old life, some part of his brain had automatically identified her as one of his own, for him to speak as he had.

"I've worn this uniform since I was sixteen. I'll wear it till the day I die."

"Well didn't he do a great job on us."

"Who?"

"Palpatine."

She straightened. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you're serious…okay." He said it quietly, dryly.

Jade moved slightly, her frosty tone laced with offence. "I was in the Youth Corps from the age of twelve. I know how to wear this uniform, I know what it means. Do you?"

"Why do you think I was trying so hard to avoid putting it back on."

The anger in her eyes transmuted to derision. "Why he kept you close, I'll never know."

"Maybe some day I'll tell you."

She stared, curiosity in her eyes, but he turned away, looking in the tall mirror set into the wall to slick his hair back again. It fell instantly forward in damp, dark spikes.

Jade didn't move, the intensity in her study making him uneasy. "On Rishi, when we fought…you could have used the Force to knock me unconscious—or simply kill me."

He glanced down, but she wouldn't let it go so easily. Her next words, spoken in that same quietly demanding tone, made him realize that she saw far more than he'd expected…and wonder if she'd told Brie. "You've barely used the Force since we started tracking you. I know what you can do. I've seen it a few times, on Coruscant…and my master told me what you were capable of."

Her final words had the ring of someone describing a warning, rather than a compliment—but then that fitted Palpatine's reasoning, Luke knew. If he'd felt the need, he would've turned any one of them against the other without qualm. And they would have obeyed, without question.

Jade tipped her head slightly, eyes narrowing. "The only time you've used it was when you were half-awake, trying to get out of the Emperor's old quarters—you practically blew through a five-stage explosion-rated door first try…and I don't think you were even aware of doing so at the time, were you?" When he didn't answer, she pushed on. "Why don't you use it?"

"I just don't, not any more."

She stared, waiting…

"All it's ever done is brought me grief, okay?" Luke immediately wondered why he'd admitted even that much—and worse, why he kept on talking. "I don't want it. I don't want anything to do with it, not any more."

"You used it in the cantina's on Rishi—barely. That's how we pinpointed you."

The memory of ensuring that the drunk ex-Imperial had stayed down when he fell came abruptly back to Luke, making his lip purse briefly. "That's parlor tricks and passive reading, something I can't turn off. I won't use it to… I just don't use it any more."

.

The door opened, and Luke took the opportunity to glance into the corridor beyond, surprised that no-one was there; he'd expected guards. An ST-3 droid clanked in carrying a meal tray, and two steps behind it was Shira Brie.

"Up and moving, I see. Breakfast." She indicated to where the droid had placed the tray on the room's worktable.

"I'm not hungry."

Sharp eyes skewered him. "Nauseous, or still got spice withdrawal cramps?"

"Can we cut to the chase, here?"

"Fine," Jade stepped forward. "What happened at Corsin Drydock when the Emperor died, and where have you been for the last nine months?"

"I don't know what happened at Corsin Drydock," Luke lied. "I wasn't there."

There was a brief, imprecise hazing within the Force, and Luke realized the Brie was trying to sense a lie—from him. She actually thought she could! He didn't know whether to be amused or insulted. He made the shields he always wore like armor mirror-smooth, hard and invariable and impenetrable as he stared, holding her eye.

Instead of frustration she seemed pleased, a brief smile tugging at the edge of her lips before she glanced away, all business. "You were listed as being onboard the ISD _Relentless_. That was one of the Destroyers tasked with the Emperor's safety, and the only one that survived the blast."

"Until oh-seven-hundred that morning. I was assigned a mission the night before, by Palpatine. I left that morning, on a shuttle. You clearly still have the _Relentless'_ bay register from the day—it would have catalogued my leaving." He'd constructed his own alternative scenario for that day long ago in his own mind, repeating it until it felt like second nature, just in case.

"It does. You left to travel over to the _Conqueror,_ the Emperor's flagship _._ "

"I took a designated long-range shuttle from the _Conqueror's_ bay, after speaking with him."

"There's nothing on any official log to say you'd been given an assignment."

"Please," Luke dismissed. "You know nothing we do gets logged anywhere."

Brie straightened. "It seems rather convenient that you just happened to get reassigned the morning of the assassination."

"Considering that I would be dead otherwise, I have to agree. And I didn't get reassigned that morning. It was the night before."

"What was the mission?" Jade asked.

"Classified," Luke replied. When she raised an eyebrow, he added. "What was your last mission?"

She didn't speak, and he tilted his head knowingly.

"Did you complete it?" Brie asked, bringing his attention back to her.

"No. There was no point."

"And there was no sign when you left, that anything was amiss?"

"You think I would have voluntarily left him, otherwise?"

"Why didn't you return to Coruscant and report to Ubiqtorate HQ after the attack?"

"I didn't have anyone to report to. Palpatine had always been my point of contact, the only one I answered to. The Ubiqtorate were a resource to be used, not a unit I belonged to."

"We were in the same situation," Jade said. "Yet we managed to authenticate our credentials."

"Bully for you," Luke returned dryly; he wanted no connection here—no comradeship.

Jade turned to Brie. "This is a waste of time. I told you he was unmanageable."

Brie held up a hand and Jade rolled her eyes, folding her arms as Brie continued.

"You should have reported in. You're a soldier."

"No, we're different. We were trained differently. I wore this uniform occasionally because it got me what I needed, in the service of the Emperor." He glanced between them, eyes hard. "You wear it because it's all you know how to be."

Jade's eyes narrowed at the insult. "You should have come back."

"To what?" he dismissed harshly. "I was a Hand. I answered to the Emperor—not the Empire, _the Emperor_. He's gone, now. I don't owe the Empire, the military, or you, anything. My tenure's over, my sentence is served."

"You're still a Hand," Jade said firmly. "That never changes."

"Absolutely," Luke said. "And the very first order I get from Palpatine, I'll act like this uniform means something to me…but failing that, we're done here."

"You have a duty. You have obligations."

"To who?"

"Palpatine! You have a responsibility to bring his killers to justice—"

Luke let out a brief laugh, aware of the tangled web that was the bitter truth. "Not gonna happen."

"—To ensure that his Empire thrives…"

"Thrives?! It's falling apart already…look at it! It wasn't an Empire—it never was. It was one man's will, and that's gone. It's gone, it's over."

Mara shook her head. "Did he train you at all? Did he manage to inject one ounce of reverence or loyalty into your petty little soul?"

Luke straightened, offended. "Yes! Yes he did! I would have done anything for…" He slowed, all bluster gone, torn between his gut reaction and his knowledge of all that Palpatine had done to him; years of lies, manipulations and abuse to gain this hold. And yet Luke still stood here, saying this. And the worst thing—the most damning thing of all—was that despite everything, it was still true. "I would have done anything for him," Luke said quietly. "But he's dead. That's it. It's over. Let it go…just let it die."

"That's it," Jade asked, appalled. "You'd just walk away?"

"I already have," Luke said—and meant it. "You want to waste your life trying to hold what's left of his failing Empire together, that's your choice. I intend to waste mine entirely differently."

"No you won't." Brie lifted her chin. "We've already proved that we can catch you and hold you."

"If you keep me unconscious. I'm not much use to you then, am I?"

"No, and you wouldn't want us to do that to you too often anyway. The sedative had strychnine in it."

"…What?"

Jade at least glanced down in guilt, though Brie shrugged casually. "You know the procedure. Any Force-adept would be able to process a straight sedative out of their system, but dope the dose with something dangerous, and their body's forced to deal with it as only a trained Force-adept can. It goes into a healing trance."

And he did know that; he knew the tricks—that there were ways for a non-Force sensitive to subdue and hold a Jedi, or even a Sith—but, "Cyanide, not strychnine—you don't use strychnine!"

"They have the same effect."

"The toxicology's completely different." He'd been taught this—all of it—over and over in his youth, in preparation for a life as Palpatine's agent. Both in terms of having to rely on another to subdue a Force-sensitive, and of having the same trick used on himself. "When you danger-dose on cyanide, if it goes wrong you can counter it with HCB antidotes. Tip the dose on strychnine and I die!"

They could have killed him and he wouldn't even have known—would have gone into ever-increasing convulsions whilst trapped in a healing trance, so extreme that he would have died from exhaustion and asphyxia.

"We wouldn't have let it go that far," Jade said levelly.

"I was in bad physical condition to begin with. You had no idea how my body would react."

"Whose fault is that?" Brie said coolly. "Look at you, you're barely holding it together. Palpatine would have been disgusted."

His chin rose, eyes narrowing as his lip curled. "Whereas you're so perfect," he bit out. "All discipline and dedication…and he's still dead. Where were you, when they murdered him? Why did you fail so utterly…because you did. _You_ failed him too. It was a premeditated Rebel attack, which means it was planned, it was equipped, it was primed in advance. I spent ninety percent of my time with Palpatine; I was close support, it wasn't my job to identify and nullify that kind of threat. That was your arena—both of you. So what's _your_ excuse?"

Jade recoiled, and Brie lashed out without hesitation. "You were there just hours before—hours!"

"I'm talking about you. _Your_ negligence. Your inattention. Your failure of duty." In the space of a few minutes, immersed in familiar places, surrounded by familiar trappings and facing familiar strong-arm tactics to try to cow him, old habits and conduct and mindsets surged to the fore. If there was one thing his Master had taught him, it was to attack with neither compassion nor hesitation, and he knew their weaknesses, because they were his own.

The words came easily; every one of them he'd leveled at himself through dark and desperate nights. "You were trained for one thing, and one thing only; to protect him. But you couldn't even do that. With a whole Empire at your back, you couldn't even protect one man. You're pitiful. And then you had the nerve to get up the next day and put that uniform back on as if nothing had happened. As if you still _deserved_ it. At least I had the good grace to hang my head in shame."

Both women stared in shocked silence—but Luke wouldn't give them even that. "What, a few home truths too hard to hear? It's over…don't you get it? Playing soldiers now won't bring him back, and looking for someone else to blame won't ease your conscience…believe me, I've tried. It's over. Palpatine's dead. He's _dead._ And every damn time you walk in here, that will still be my answer."

Jade turned and strode quickly from the room, and Luke knew that his words had probably hit her harder, and felt a brief pang of guilt. Brie straightened casually, that cool smile still intact on her face as she turned and sauntered out, locking the door as she left.

.

.

He spent the night and half of the next morning sleeping—he may as well do that here as anywhere else; at least the room was clean. And in truth, he slept better cooped up in a Star Destroyer than he'd slept in the last nine months…and what the hell did that say about him? Having grown up in confinement, mental and physical, he was uneasy with unfettered choice, he supposed. Freedom was wasted on him.

But he could only go so long before his body began howling its demand, in stomach cramps and knotted muscles and biting need. Despite the familiar diversions, with no spice and no opportunity to get any, his patience was wearing thin.

It was pure chance and her own bad luck that the next person to enter his room was Jade.

.

She was wary, just from coming in here with him. The difference was, she was wary…Luke was already primed.

As she walked in he glanced only briefly at her, then to the corner of the room to her left, then quickly down. It was a fraction of a second, but her eyes and her attention wavered to that side—

He'd been sat on the end of the bed, already half-turned towards the door, and launched forward without hesitation, arms lifting and spreading. In them was the blanket which he'd folded down to hang over the base of the bed. Now it spread wide, already hampering her vision as she backed up a hasty step. It was the most natural reaction in the world to lift her hands up and out to stop the blanket covering her…and by the time they were halfway up she was fast enough to have realized her mistake, because her right hand was beginning to drop again to her gunbelt. But the blanket was already over her head and Luke was bringing it down behind her as he grabbed her through its folds and spun her about, catching her arms up within it in the same moment that her right hand fumbled down to her blaster. She was a fraction too late, too much of the blanket between her fingers and the blaster at her hip. He felt her scrabble to clear her hand as he dragged the cloth tighter about her, using it to pull her bodily about.

Completely covered head to hips, she stumbled a blind step into the wall but recovered admirably, managing to hook her foot around Luke's ankle. But he simply lifted his weight from that leg and let her pull it, leaning into her all the more to catch himself. Stumbling as she struggled to remain upright against his weight, she caught her fall on her shoulder against the wall and instantly twisted to strike out at him through the blanket, but it was now tight enough to reduce what would have been a well-judged blow to his face into a stifled half-hit to the shoulder as he jerked aside then powered forward, taking her with him.

With no way to stabilize herself and counter the momentum, no visual clues as to his actions or where he'd haul her next, she was manhandled into the corner of the room where Luke used the blanket, whose edges he still held, to spin her about, blind, so that she hit the wall face and body first. For a second the blind shock of the jolt slowed her, and he used the advantage to pull the edges of the blanket taut and wrap them about her head and neck a second time, pulling tight.

"Still—stay still, or I'll cut off your air." He said it quickly and levelly, adding as he felt her body tense, "One chance—still, right now, or I put you down."

She held for a fraction of a second, then relaxed slightly, her hands, one of which had gripped Luke's wrist through the layers of cloth, loosening. Only now did he risk looking to the blaster that she still had at her belt, knowing that the moment he let go of the blanket entwined about her, she'd lash out. But a blaster would be a very useful thing to have, right now…

He made a quick glance to the door, knowing that every second he took, Jade would be orienting herself a little more, in preparation…

"How does the door open?" he asked at last, moving her slightly about as he did so, so that she couldn't get a fix on her position relative to him. "Quickly."

There was a second's silence, then, "A proximity tag around my wrist activates it."

"You're kidding me." Great; so she was coming to the door with him, since he had zero intention of letting her arm out of its straightjacket.

He jerked the corners of the blanket tighter, then swung her round by the fabric about her neck and dragged her backwards to the door, with himself between her and it. Her hands were fumbling beneath the blanket again now, and he knew she'd be looking for her opportunity. This would be messy…

Just how messy became apparent when he was within a half-step of the door and it slid open—

to reveal two men in the corridor outside, armed with force-pikes.

Cursing, Luke used his foot to pull the chair out from the wall beside the door and pushed Jade into its path as he released his grip on the blanket's edge, grabbing for her blaster in the same moment that he shoved her forward.

Blind, hands still caught within the blanket, she fell headlong into the chair, toppling awkwardly to her knees as Luke turned to the open door and his next problem. The two men in Special Forces fatigues were already turning, the nearest swinging his pike in as the man to the far side of the corridor went for his blaster. Forced to go for the more dangerous threat before the closer one, Luke shot the far soldier with Jade's gun as the man's blaster cleared its holster, knocking him back across the hallway. That meant that he was already too late to bring his blaster to bear on the pike-wielder to his right, forced instead to duck and twist in avoidance of the long-reaching pike which swung in at head-height. Behind him the clattering of the chair had been replaced by a loud yell, and he reached up as he crossed the door frame to slap the lock-plate before he had to face an irate Jade at his back, as well.

He should have put her down; a year ago he would have, without hesitation.

The half-second of split attention bought the pike-wielder time to make contact, and its tip discharged into the very edge of Luke's hand, barely scratching skin, and even that sufficient to release a shock which rippled up the muscles of his arm and jolted in his chest like a body-blow. Spasming muscles dropped the blaster as his knees gave way but he rolled, coming up clear of the pike's reach as the soldier hustled forward.

With all of the man's arm strength spent at the end of his pike-swing, Luke lunged up and took a solid two-handed hold of the staff, far enough up to avoid its already recharged tip. Substituting momentum for the weight he lacked, he powered it back into its wielder, keeping the impetus up until he'd backed the man into the wall with a solid thump. Wrestled high and horizontal by the momentum, the pike shaft's long pole slammed against the man's throat a second later and Luke kept up the pressure, adding a knee to the soldier's stomach to forego any defensive move. With all of Luke's bodyweight behind it and his adversary's arms awkwardly bent, he kept the pressure on the staff until the man's eyes bulged. In a last ditch attempt the soldier brought his own leg up, bent at the knee, but Luke shifted whilst keeping all his bodyweight on the pike staff. His own leg came up too late to stop the blow, but fast enough to hamper it and reduce a knee to his side that would have bent him double to something bearable.

Seconds longer, in which Luke's arms began to tremble…then the man's eyes finally rolled up as his body slowly slumped into unconsciousness.

Gasping, Luke let go of his hold on the pike but still dropped down with the unconscious man, sitting heavily on his knees for long seconds as he heaved in air. That had been messy…embarrassingly so. He was out of shape in more ways than one, his reflexes shot to all hells, if two men had nearly brought him down. Still breathing heavily, Luke hauled himself up against the wall and glanced up and down the corridor…landing bays; nearest? The bad thing about Star Destroyers was that every internal corridor looked the same, with no real land-marks to orient yourself. Left or right?

He looked down the corridor, then pushed about and had taken one step when the door to his side slid open and Jade launched out with a yell. She stooped as she came forward, grabbing the second pike from the floor and swinging it up and round—

Luke barely had time to wonder how the hell she'd unlocked the door before the pike shaft arced in to hit his chest just below his throat, with enough force to knock him backwards off his feet. Already activated, it released its charge on impact.

He was unconscious by the time he hit the ground.

.

.

Still gasping, fuming and furious both at herself for being caught out and at Antilles for doing so, Mara leaned over his unconscious form where it had fallen. The blow had been pretty powerful—enough to knock him backwards even before the pike had released its charge—so that his feet had lifted clear of the ground and he'd landed heavily…but he was still breathing.

As she stooped to check the pulse of the soldier who lay on the floor close by, Antilles rolled onto his side with a low moan, and Mara kicked the other pike clear and retrieved her dropped blaster to train it on him. His eyes flickered open as he coughed, bringing his hand to his chest where her pike-blow had hit.

"You shot an Imperial soldier!" She yelled the accusation as he coughed, getting an arm under his chest as he struggled to push himself upright.

"You shouldn't have put him in my way, then," he croaked the words, throat betraying the damage from the combination of the roundhouse blow and the power-charge.

More guarded by the second, Mara's thoughts went to the comlink at her hip, but as he rolled to sitting with one leg bent beneath him, she was wary of splitting her attention even that much.

"Get back in th—"

It was _incredibly_ fast. So much so that she couldn't tell what happened first; whether he used the Force to drag her feet out from under her or enhance his own reflexes, or both, or neither. All she knew was that one moment he was in a crouch on the floor and the next he was up and in front of her, hand out to slap her blaster aside as her finger tightened on the trigger, so that the shot went high over his shoulder to hit the roof in a flare of sparks—

She tried to slip to the side but he still shouldered into her, knocking her back hard enough that the only thing that kept her upright was the wall behind her. He pulled a wide roundhouse blow as he passed, using the fact that he needed to spin back about to face her to add momentum to it, and Mara dodged at the last second, arms up to either side of her head in defense. She was saved by the fact that the hasty blow was a fraction misjudged, so that it glanced off the wall at her head-height a fraction before it made contact, robbing it of half its power. Pushing off, she tried a snap-kick to his side, but he tilted his body to catch the blow on his arm, where it would do least damage. It was a solid block and put him in a good position for a counter, weight visibly transferring to one leg in preparation…which made no difference at all because Mara was already aiming her blaster—

As a last-ditch effort Antilles finally did what she'd expected from the beginning—and why hadn't he done it sooner? Hand outstretched, he used the Force to yank her blaster free of her grip.

But barely a step apart, they were so close that it arrived in his hand barrel-first. Mara was already kicking out again, this time at rib-height, and though he tried to get his outstretched arm down to take the brunt of the blow it still doubled him over, bringing his hands in to his body and buying her the time to lunge in to make a grab for her blaster butt.

For a few fumbling seconds both struggled as she shouldered into him, Antilles still bent over as Mara angled the blaster they both held down towards his torso, so close that the nozzle rested against his stomach, part-tangled in the folds of his shirt as he pressed it closer in by the barrel, making it hard for her to take hold of. She wrestled her finger to the trigger, but he already had his own finger to the back of the trigger space, pulling against hers as his other hand released the barrel to wrap about the stock. Stood almost side on to him she yanked down at the same time as she loosed one hand and brought her elbow up, making clean, hard contact beneath his ribcage.

It was enough to weaken his hold and she wrenched free, blaster in her hand, twisting to face him as she fell a few paces backwards and pulled it up to train it squarely at the center of his chest.

"Ah-ah!" She gestured with the gun, still too breathless to say much more. "Sit."

He dropped to kneel on his haunches on the floor, hands still together over his stomach as he bent his head, gasping to get his diaphragm out of spasm and draw in breath.

Mara too dropped down to sit back onto her heels, more sore than she was prepared to admit. "You have _got_ to learn when you're beat, Antilles."

"I prefer…to call it getting..my breath back," he gasped, gulping in air as he spoke, a boyish grin beneath that muss of tousled, black-dyed hair.

Mara glared, unimpressed, still panting.

"You know the difference b…between you and me," he said at last, when he'd recovered a little more. "You need me alive."

She arched her eyebrows at the barely-veiled threat, fighting to get her breath under control. "Interesting. Want to know wh…what I think the difference is between you and me? I have the blaster."

"True." His back straightened slightly and Mara tensed, not missing the subtle transference of his weight onto the balls of his feet as he let his hands, still cupped together over his stomach, fall open to reveal what he held. "But I have its power pack."

"Cra—."

He was already launching forward. Mara fired anyway—you never knew—but by the time the blaster had sounded an empty clack, Antilles was on her.

They went over backwards with all his weight over her, so that she hit the ground with a heavy crack to the back of her head and a flare of bright light which spiraled instantly to darkness.

.

When she woke up, he was gone.

Rising groggily she took a staggering step forward, fumbling for her comlink at her hip. As she stood, lifting it to her lips, she was aware of something cold slipping against her ribs. Looking down, she scowled as she reached to the open neck of her jumpsuit. Unzipping it lower, she knocked at the fabric…and her blaster's power pack fell out.

"You smartass son of a—"

"Mara?" It was Shira, responding to her comm.

"He's out," Mara growled, knowing that Shira would understand.

.

.

.

.

.


	4. Chapter 4

.

.

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

.

.

Luke stared out across the console of Bay Five's flight traffic control room, then ducked back, cursing roundly until he ran out of words…which took a while.

He'd headed for the supply bay, one of ten whose entrances were stacked to either side of the massive main belly access on the underside of any Star Destroyer. Occasionally, as he made his way through little-used corridors at speed, his thoughts had lingered on that embarrassingly messy exit. Part, at least, could be attributed to Jade and her lifelong training as a Hand, just as he'd been trained. But he'd always been taught to self-evaluate, and he knew that part had been nothing more than his own physical condition…and that was entirely his fault.

It also hadn't escaped his notice that the reason he was so hell-bent on leaving right now was so that he could pour more of the same substances that had brought him this low back into his body; he wasn't blind and he wasn't stupid. Well, maybe the latter—because he still intended to do it.

Trying not to think too hard on that, he'd first headed for the TIE bays. But as he'd neared the obvious thought had occurred that neither the standard TIE/LN or the Interceptor had lightspeed. That meant he cut his options down by needing either a variant or, more likely, hoping that there was a long-range military shuttle on warm-up already. If he was reduced to a shuttle anyway, then heading down to the more densely-used standard supply bays to pick a non-military shuttle would be less expected, and whilst it might not be as fast or manoeuvrable, he'd have a wide choice of shuttles, scouts and light freight ships to get him to Rishi—and his own hidden freighter—pretty untraceably.

That and been the plan. And to be fair, he'd expected some resistance. Since he was clearly looking to leave, the ship bays would always have been his target, and the several minutes of running that it had taken to get through the Star Destroyer's internal corridors and to the bays had given Jade and Brie enough time to muster up any amount of strategies in response.

Since they'd already started locking down the bulkhead doors to slow him, forcing him to use Hand override codes to get through the last few levels, they now also had a pretty reasonable idea of which side of the main belly exit chute he'd be heading towards the bays from, just to narrow it down for them. That was why he'd veered off again at the last minute to go up two levels from Bay Five's standard entrance and come into it via the flight traffic control room, knowing that from there he could choose and release a pre-fuelled ship, scupper and lock down others, and generally cause some useful havoc before he used the control room's bay entrance stairwell to get onto the actual ship deck.

He should have known when the control room was empty of personnel. In fact he'd been running a few of the most likely scenarios through his head, in preparation…

Hadn't run this one, though.

He leaned forward again to stare across the console and into the substantial bay. The substantial, _empty_ bay.

In the distance, across the wide void of the main exit chute around which multiple bays were arranged, he could see five more bays opposite his…all empty. TIE's, shuttles, scouts, freighters...not a single flyable craft.

 _This_ was the problem with going up against other Hands.

.

As he watched, a phalanx of twenty Special Ops marched into the bay below…accompanied by a striding redhead with a bob-cut who glanced around, then lifted her comlink to her mouth. Across the void of the exit chute stormtroopers were entering other bays as their massive atmospheric bay doors, which led back into the Destroyer, rumbled closed behind them. To the rear of the control room behind Luke, the standard airlock door snicked locked.

He could, of course, use one of several Hand override codes to re-open it, and regain access to the ship. Having done so, he could probably last another two or three days hiding out, and generally causing havoc out of nothing more than hurt pride. A Star Destroyer was a big place to hide, and he'd travelled on them since childhood; he knew every nook and cranny. Given half an hour and a head start he could pretty much cripple it, if he felt that way inclined. But at the end of the day it was still a Star Destroyer…and some part of Luke blenched at causing damage to Palpatine's fleet, even now. On the back of that thought Jade's shocked accusation sounded again in his head: _"_ _You shot an Imperial soldier_ _!"_

He was in the wrong, here. Not them.

That thought had pretty much kept on playing over and over since he'd got here, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. Yes, he wasn't happy about being here, but it was what he'd been raised and trained to do. It was what he'd always expected of his life; that it would be spent in the service of the Emperor…

But Palpatine wasn't here any more. So where did that leave him? Did he owe them anything?

He looked down to his clothes; the white, stand-collared shirt and the black fitted military-cut pants and boots of his Ubiqtorate uniform. He still hadn't once put the jacket on. Was it time that he did?

He hung his head to curse again…then stood straight and walked to the gantry door which led into the bay. Brie turned to look up as he stepped out onto the bay gantry, the troopers about her doing likewise as they raised their blasters.

"Well done!" Her dry voice echoed around the cavernous bay as she clapped her hands slowly. "That's a pretty impressive exit you very nearly made."

"Thanks," he deadpanned. "Unfortunately, you seem to have moved my transport out of here. Kinda ruined my big finalé."

"Yes it did, didn't it? We thought, well, with a Sith onboard, you can't be too careful."

He tilted his head in a half-nod, then walked at a leisurely pace along the gantry, and started down the metal steps onto the bay deck. "Why Special Ops? You knew which bay I was in, and you put stormtroopers in the others but S.O. troops here. And at my room. Why?"

She stared for long moments… "Have you finished your little workout?"

"Pretty much, thanks," he said dryly. Then, so she knew he wouldn't be derailed, "So why Special Ops?"

Brie glanced to the side to nod briefly to the S.O. commander, and the troops filed out. They wouldn't go far, Luke was sure.

"If you must know, we were trying to keep your little tantrums at least reasonably quiet, and the S.O. troops are ours, not attached to the Star Destroyer. And we removed all non-essential craft to other ships when we first took you onboard. Jade's idea. She didn't think you'd be particularly amenable at the start, so she wanted to cut down your options and improve ours, at least long enough for you to settle in. Myself, I can't imagine why you wouldn't want to come back—particularly given your squalid alternative."

"You're kidding me. You turn up, and without a single word, you shoot, drug and drag me up here and think I should be—what? Grateful?" Tired, sore, and edgy from going too long without spice, being forced to endure another bout of Brie's self-assured poise felt like a deliberate provocation. "You came trailing after me when I thought I'd made it pretty clear that my tenure with the Empire was done, and had the gall to think that if you held your nerve, I'd just fold and take your orders? You said yourself, you brought a Sith amongst you…and you thought that if you threw a uniform at me again, you could control that?! I should snap your fragile little neck for even—"

He broke off, realization of his own rising agitation coming cold. Because he could so easily have done it; in that moment, it would have been effortless. A return to form, his Master would have said; he could almost hear the chuckle of that cracked voice.

"You should have left me where I was," he said quietly at last. "If you had an ounce of sense you'd put me back there, get the hell away, and pray that I stayed in the gutter."

"Or execute you now," Brie said without hesitation.

"Which you can't, because you need me." Luke tilted his head without turning, aware of light footsteps in the bay behind him. "Isn't that right, Jade?"

She slowed, eyes narrowing at he as he finally looked to her, his voice calmly conversational. "You seem to be limping."

Her chin lifted. "Yeah, I think I bruised my foot when I kicked you in the ribs."

"Ah. Would that be after you got knocked on your ass in the room, but before I put you out cold in the corridor?"

Brie stepped closer, forcing him to turn partway to keep her in view; he didn't like her at his back.

"I think you may overestimate your value, Commander Antilles."

"Really? How convincing do you think that argument is, when you've just admitted to emptying every bay on this entire ship of transports, just to keep me here?"

"There's a difference between keeping you here and needing you."

"There is…the latter requires you to keep me here and in one piece." He lifted his arms in dry indication. "If you didn't, you'd have killed me on Rishi."

Jade straightened to the edge of his vision. "Maybe unlike you, we have some sense of loyalty to our own."

"Yeah, you might want to explain that to your strychnine-toting friend here, who's presently quoting execution scenarios."

"You know we wouldn't do it," Brie purred.

"Because you need me." He raised his eyebrows. "Back to square one. You want to tell me why yet, or shall we do this dance one more time? Because you should know my patience is wearing thin."

"Fine, we need you." Jade's words caused Brie to glare, though why he didn't know; it was a patently obvious fact.

She was braver, in her own way, than Brie. Brie was the front here, the voice, the drive. But she was fired by her own self-serving ambition, as Palpatine had always been. Three minutes with them, and he could see that. Jade…what pulled her on? Because she wasn't the subordinate here, and she wasn't being led. She was an active participant, but for her own reasons. This was two women with two very different agendas…and Luke's mind was already ticking with how to use that against them.

"Okay, finally got past that…now I want to know why."

Jade barely glanced to Brie. "We need access to one of the Emperor's strongholds."

"Which one?"

"Rv-9."

Luke remained silent and still, making no mention of the fact that he didn't know it. In itself that wasn't unusual; Palpatine had endless storehouses hidden away on obscure planets. The only thing which made this one of note was the fact that his Master had clearly chosen to tell Jade, yet not him.

Not that he'd admit to that—not without a lot more information first. "Why do you need access?"

"We've reason to believe that there are a full set of the Emperor's military access codes stored there. I have codes which will get me into the main storehouse, but not past the inner levels, where we believe the MA codes are stored. If we try to force entry, we could trigger any number of self-destructs."

"Then get a specialist decoder. You don't need me."

"They've already sliced the codes to the remaining outer defenses, which are standard high-end security and automated dead bolt and drop-trigger systems. But the inner defenses are arranged so that only a Sith can open them."

"You know how to use the Force. You threw me across the street on Rishi."

Jade glanced to Brie. "We don't have the fine control to discern and neutralize unseen traps, or the brute force to open multi-plate blast-rated doors which have no visible mechanism, but are probably booby trapped." Again it was her admission, and Luke turned in time to see Brie grind her jaw at giving so much away.

He knew, of course, that their abilities were limited. Ever wary, his Master had taught just enough to each of his agents to ensure that they were more capable than most, without ever being a threat to him. Only Luke, as his father's successor, had been taught the full range of a Sith's powers.

Brie stepped forward, tilting her head as she smiled in persuasion. "Isn't it better to just do it? Get us in and get us what we want…and we'll leave you alone."

"Sure you will."

"You have my word."

"The word of someone who held a blaster point-blank to my skull and pulled the trigger, then injected me with strychnine? Not worth a whole lot, I gotta tell you." Luke paused, recognizing his first chance to test their convenient partnership. He didn't even have anything against either of them, in theory. But they'd come after him, and that made them a threat…which triggered an inevitable response.

So he glanced to Jade. "I want hers."

Brie's eyes narrowed. "Jade did everything I did."

"I trust her. I don't trust you." He didn't pause to consider if it was true or not; it didn't even matter. What mattered was that the narrowing of Brie's eyes already testified to the wedge he'd just driven in between them. Divide and conquer.

Jade tilted her head, sharp enough to see the strings. "He's playing us."

"Why do you think there's a full set of military access codes at Rv-9," Luke asked, moving the moment on without resolution; let it sit and fester.

"It's an automated storehouse on an uninhabited Rim planet which almost no-one knew about, but it has massive defenses," Brie said. "A full set of MA codes is the most valuable thing the Emperor would have sought to protect."

"I assume there's some kind of reason that you can't get access to the codes stored on Coruscant?"

Brie shook her head. "If you're thinking of the Emperor's private database in the Imperial palace, Admiral Ysard and her trained idiots triggered the auto-wipe when they tried to crack the system about seven months ago. That was the only known full set of MA codes—at present nobody has another. The Rv-9 storehouse was clearly designed for Palpatine's own use without the need for further intervention. It's unknown, even at high level. We've been twice now, and it's still intact and unbreached."

So they knew where it was. "What do you think the codes will buy you anyway?"

"Legitimacy," Brie said confidently.

"I thought you said you'd already proved your credentials."

"I'm talking the highest level, here."

"We're onboard your very own Star Destroyer—I assume you're in charge, since you were given free rein to take it all the way to Rishi looking for me, which is well outside of Imperial territory these days. So you've already got the backing of one of the major Moffs, to have that kind of pulling power. Probably loose affiliations with several others, whose territory you've passed through unchallenged. Between us, I'm also pretty sure that we could come up with most of the general military access codes in present use, and you presumably know that, too…so we're back to what do you really want me for. Except that we've now established that whatever it is, it's in the Rv-9 storehouse."

"We've told you, we want the MA codes."

"And I've told you, I can give you eighty percent of those in use right now. Why the Rv-9 storehouse?"

Jade glanced to Brie…then turned about, holstering her blaster. "Come on."

"Where?"

"You want to know the plan? Fine…but not here."

He knew that if he followed, he was effectively relenting. He also knew that if he really wanted to find out what was in Storehouse Rv-9, he was perfectly capable of doing so by himself, now that they'd given him the name to go on. He looked from Jade to Brie, who tilted her head then turned to exit behind Jade. The dark amber of that precision-cut bob brushed against her shoulders as she sauntered past him, coolly confident…

Narrowing his eyes, he followed.

.

.

.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

They stood in the less confrontational setting of one of the officer's conference rooms in the command tower of the Star Destroyer, where the impressive view of its wide, arrow-shaped bulk stretched out behind multiple lozenge-shaped floor to ceiling viewports, ignored by all.

Brie leaned back against the thick transparisteel of the viewport, patently amused at Luke's disbelief. Jade, with both her ego and her body likely as sore as Luke's was, ignored his remark completely, continuing on as if briefing a new mission. "At present, the second Death Star is still under construction in the Moddell sector, which remains under the control of Grand Moff Saldago Kessler. But the Emperor never trusted Kessler entirely bec—"

"I know why Palpatine didn't trust Kessler," Luke dismissed. Though shrewd and useful, Kessler was power-hungry, politically well-placed, and deeply wary of the increasing power that both Intel and the Ubiqtorate wrapped about themselves in the last years before Palpatine's demise. He'd also viewed Palpatine's disregard of him when control of the Core systems had been awarded elsewhere as a personal snub. He was actually right.

Jade ground her jaw, so that it was Brie who pushed on.

"Because of that, Palpatine made sure that whilst the second Death Star was constructed in his territories, Kessler himself never had the necessary command codes to fully activate or utilize it…which means that it's presently in limbo. Kessler has control of it because it remains part-assembled at Endor, in his sector, but the short-term partial codes that were in use during its construction are now out of date and so inactive. He can't use it. He can't even fire it up on sublight, because he doesn't have the necessary codes. In fact, no-one does—not a full set."

"And you think that if you just go waltzing in there with a full set of military access codes, he's going to roll out the welcome mat for you?"

"If we turn up there in the right way…yes. We've already approached and made a deal with Moff Kessler," Brie smiled. "In fact this is one of his Star Destroyers we're utilizing right now."

" _Utilizing_ a Star Destroyer with some Moff's consent, and taking control of a Death Star from him, are not the same thing."

"No they're not. But we have other agreements in place—ones that Kessler doesn't know about. Ones that will enable us to do just that."

"And they would be?"

"Like I said, once we retrieve the full set of military activation codes from Rv-9 we turn up at Kessler's base in the right way…which would be onboard the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ ," Brie said levelly.

The edge of Luke's mouth kinked up at the sheer audacity of it, and Brie continued, pleased with herself.

"The _Executor_ was completed over two months ago now, and is theoretically under the command of Admiral Griff and his sector Moff, Tacia Sekati, who controls the Fondor military shipyards in the Tapani sector close to the Southern Core, where the _Executor_ is located, but—"

"Let me guess, they don't have the full MA access codes to activate it."

"The Emperor's loss was unanticipated and unprepared for, you know that. No provisions had been made to access or disseminate this kind of high-level information. Moff Gaiko's Kuat Driveyards worked on elements of the _Executor's_ propulsion drives and main processing systems, and as such Moff Gaiko holds a partial set of codes. Again they're time-sensitive, but although some are now obsolete, some are still active…but Gaiko won't hand his element over to Sekati without a guarantee that the _Executor_ will be assigned to his sector, which obviously Moff Sekati's not willing to do. Moff Gaiko's willing to wait it out, and meanwhile the last remaining active codes to at least fire up the _Executor's_ engines are ticking down to obsolescence. Moff Sekati is so determined not to even negotiate that she's on the brink of ordering her own Fondor shipyards to disassemble the _Executor's_ entire processing system, so that they can blow or override all pre-existing imprinted codes—which would effectively set its launch back another year at least."

Luke shook his head as she spoke. "And you seriously think this situation is worth salvaging? Just let them all rot in their own paranoia."

Jade straightened from where she leaned against the high back of an upright chair. "And leave the door wide open for the Rebels to take over?"

"It's gonna take them a hell of a long time to push as far in as the Colony regions, let alone the Core."

"The _Executor_ isn't the only hardware which needs immediate attention to ensure that it won't fall into Rebel hands. The second Death Star is in a critically vulnerable position in terms of its proximity to Rebel-held space, and without the necessary military access codes it's going nowhere. Its discovery is prevented only by the fact that the Rebels are concentrating their efforts inwards, towards the Mid Rim. We need to gain access to and remove the Death Star from Moff Kessler's territory before that situation changes."

"For what? You think parading some shiny new hardware around is going to solve this? It's not. The Rebels are only half your problem."

"No, we think a combination of the right voice and the right backing will solve it," Jade came back, reducing the problem to its most basic terms as she stepped forward to sit at the long, obsidian table.

Brie shifted. "But it doesn't hurt to hold the biggest stick, either. The Imperial factions need to be pulled back under a single rule—by force, if necessary."

"I'm sure Moff Kessler is thinking the same thing—I'll let you guess who he sees that single ruler to be. And you're about to give him a fully-activated Death Star."

"No," Shira said, supremely confident. "We're about to take one off him."

"How, exactly? If I gave you the MA codes…then what? You think you're gonna just waltz in there one night and sneak it out? Because let me tell you those things don't fly themselves, and every single soldier onboard would be loyal to Kessler."

"There's no need to sneak into Kessler's territory—I just told you, we're presently operating out of one of his own Star Destroyers. We have a long-standing deal in place with Kessler, which means we have free passage codes for his territory, we have intel, we have operating procedures. We've worked with him for almost five months now, and we've done so on the understanding that we're on the brink of locating a set of military access codes to activate the Death Star for his own use. To that end we've already negotiated with Moff Sekati on Kessler's behalf, agreeing that if we locate a set of codes to activate the Death Star, then her Fondor shipyards will supply the majority of materials and trained techs necessary to complete it. What Moff Kessler isn't aware of, however, is that Moff Sekati has also _privately_ agreed that if we can also recover a set of codes to activate the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ which is presently dormant at her Fondor shipyards, she'll allow us the _Executor's_ use in seizing the Death Star from Kessler."

"So you're actually allied with Moff Sekati?"

"We have an agreement in place with her," Brie said vaguely. "What that agreement means is that when we return to Moff Kessler with the codes for the Death Star in our possession, it will be onboard the newly-activated _Executor_ , loaded with a tech crew from Moff Sekati. They'll use the military access codes we've gained to activate the Death Star. The _Executor_ will provide us with the necessary time and firepower to achieve that. As far as Kessler knows, Sekati is onboard solely to provide materials and labor. He's unaware that we'll use Sekati's forces to liberate the Death Star from him."

Luke shook his head. "You're creating a confrontation between two of the remaining big players. Do that, and you're doing the Rebellion's job for them—particularly when one of them is holding onto what's left of Imperial territory in the Rim. Worse, territory containing a superweapon that they don't presently know about. You need to have a solid alliance with at least one other group beside Moff Sekati, to stabilize this _before_ you move."

"We'll negotiate that if and when we need to."

"You need to do it now. Before you act. Otherwise you're turning two Imperial factions against each other with no way to control the outcome. You need a third party to hold order—a more neutral one. You need more backing, if you're going to sustain any kind of authority through all of that. You're nothing, understand? These are Imperial Moffs, they respect power and status, you know that. You're no-one. You were invisible. Nobody left alive knows you."

"No," Brie said, setting forward to sit opposite him at the long table. "But they know you."

"Me?" Luke stared for long seconds…then let out a rough laugh. "You can't be that desperate."

"You've always been close to Palpatine—always," Brie said confidently. "You consistently remained in his inner circle. Those at the very top knew that, and you're right, those are the people who we need to impress, now. You have visible credentials. They knew you were Ubiqtorate, they knew you were a Hand, and they knew you were in Palpatine's inner circle and operated on his authorization."

"So? You were a Hand."

"Not like you—not visible."

"I was barely that—and I hate to disappoint you, but put all that together and it still counts for pretty much zero. Palpatine basically kept me around for something to dig at when he was bored."

"He was grooming you for second in command."

"No, he was—"

"That's what a lot of brass thought," Jade interjected. "And you know how this goes; in the absence of reliable facts people will fall back on rumor…as long as it comes from the right sources and is correctly presented."

Brie straightened. "That's what we'll put forward. You grew up under Palpatine's guardianship. Everyone knew he was directly involved in your education and your initiation into the highest levels of the military. You operated with his direct mandate. That puts you in the chain of command. It gives you a legitimate voice."

Luke actually laughed out loud. "Seriously? You seriously think anyone's gonna buy that."

"Not right now," Brie said, eyeing him appraisingly as she leaned back, one polished, knee-high boot crossed over the other. "You look like a hobo who's been chewed up and spat out by a nek. But they will when we've finished with you."

"What happened to the whole, 'Get us into the Rv-9 storehouse and we'll let you go'?"

Brie leaned in to wrinkle her nose, infinitely sure of herself. "Oh come on, you knew that wasn't going to happen. Think about it, we're offering you a place at the head table, here."

"No, you're offering to set me up as a puppet you think you can control, whilst pinning a big target on my back for all the other Moffs in play," Luke said knowingly.

"Same thing," Brie said. "That's what a seat in the big game costs. We'll stand your stake—that's the backing of Moff Sekati and the interest of a very useful lesser Moff close to Kessler, and we can pick up at least three more once we have control of the hardware, if we handle this right. Travelling onboard the _Executor_ with that kind of backing, we'd become a serious faction in terms of sector-range and military hardware. If we also get the Death Star we can gain control—with or without Moff Kessler's backing. More importantly, we could maintain and enforce it. A single power, to end the infighting. Between the people in this room right now we have the ability, the initiative, and the right to do so."

"The right? How do you have the _right_ to rule?"

Brie smiled. "There's nothing like control of the only Super Star Destroyer in existence to put you head and shoulders above the opposition. And a Death Star and a full set of military access override codes to keep you there."

Luke's eyes narrowed. "So much so that once you've got them, you're not sharing them with anyone, are you?"

"Why should we? We got them, after all. You asked me what we'll have to gain us standing among the Moffs—I'm telling you. We'll have a Super Star Destroyer, a fully active Death Star and…"

She didn't say it…but then she didn't have to. Luke nodded his head. "And a Sith."

Brie glanced briefly to Jade then leaned forward to Luke across the polished table, flashing her most persuasive smile as her voice lilted provocatively. "And our very own Sith…and you are, you know. You're one of us. We need to stick together, we Hands. We need to do what he would have wanted."

He turned to Jade. "And you think this is the right course?"

She lifted her chin at being called. "I think infighting between the Moffs is ripping the Empire apart at a time when stability and singleness of purpose is paramount."

His eyes came back to Brie. "And how handy that you're the one to reinstate that."

Her self-assured smile widened, fed by appreciation of her own audacity. " _We_ are."

.

.

.

Mara walked back from having _accompanied_ Antilles to his quarters, privately wondering how long he'd stay put this time. He seemed more subdued than before, though. More contemplative, now that the truth was out. It wasn't a change of heart so much as a resigned fatalism, as if everything since he'd been here had been little more than a reflex voicing of his annoyance at being kept in the dark, rather than any genuine objection. Now that he was aware of the greater plan, he seemed to have settled…somewhat.

She knew him of old, by reputation mostly, though they'd trained together a few hours a day for a while, when they were both far younger. Unlike Shira, Mara had grown up at least close to and occasionally inside the Imperial Palace, and so was always distantly aware of Antilles' existence, just as he'd been aware of hers. For a time their lightsaber practice had even put them in regular contact, though they'd made no attempt at friendship, already knowing that such things weren't allowed. And of course, she'd read and re-read his Intel psyche evaluation, when this plan had come together.

The assessment cited him to be both privately and publically regarded as completely loyal to the Emperor—even Palpatine himself was confident of that. So his reticence—not simply now, when the facts were out, but in his absence for the last nine months—seemed uncharacteristic; at odds with both the general view and the Intel profile. Then again, aside from noting his unswerving loyalty to Palpatine, his psyche profile also cited that he was antisocial, obstructive and antagonistic. At best laconic, at worst unmanageable and insubordinate, with all but the Emperor himself. And to be fair, he still had no particular reason to trust them—though he had the means. He had the means to simply pull any and all truths out of their heads at any time, she knew. Which made it all the more interesting that he hadn't…

Reaching the security suite set two levels up from him to lessen Antilles' awareness of it, though she doubted that he'd even tried to locate it, Mara entered to find it empty save for Shira. Changed from her uniform to a form-fitting jumpsuit, she was draped across a chair, long legs crossed loosely, eyes on one of the bank of five monitors which gave differing views of Antilles' rooms.

Mara's disclosure of the truth hadn't been the ideal way to make the offer, she knew, and she expected Shira to voice that now. But despite Shira's confidence, Mara suspected that they'd been nearing the end of the period of grace that Antilles was prepared to allow them, and didn't want to test that further.

To Mara's mind they needed to start treating him like the co-conspirator they needed him to be, if they wanted his collaboration. Shira may think she could charm it from him, but Mara knew he'd been better trained than that. For all of Antilles' faults, Palpatine had always held him up to Mara as a force to be reckoned with…and given every choice, it had been Antilles that he had chosen to train as his advocate.

Shira half-turned, her words saving Mara from picking at that particular thread. "He went back okay?"

"Fine." She glanced about, frowning. "Where's security?"

"I'll take this watch. It should be one of us, after today," Shira said casually, self-assured as ever. "It went reasonably well, I thought, considering. You shouldn't have told him that we needed him to clear Rv-9's defenses. He'll be incorrigible, now he knows that."

"He already knew we needed him, and the information bought his interest."

"No, he _thought_ we needed him. Now he knows."

Mara pressed one hand to sore ribs, tempted to start looking for bruises. "You know you'll never control him."

"He's still here, isn't he."

"Read his psyche profile. He's confrontational, deliberately obstructive and lacks discipline."

"The Emperor once told me that his connection had the potential to be greater than Lord Vader's."

To Shira, initially recruited and trained by Vader, he was the paradigm to compare all else to, Mara knew. Palpatine was to be venerated for his status and power, but it seemed that it was Lord Vader whom Shira secretly set store by. A concept which, given Vader's intractable and volatile nature, seemed to Mara fundamentally flawed. "So he's confrontational, deliberately obstructive, he lacks discipline _and_ he's potentially more dangerous than Vader."

"Potentially invaluable," Shira corrected. "Don't worry, I can handle him. We can," she added quickly, turning. For the first time, she looked Mara up and down. "You look shattered."

Mara scowled, annoyed that it showed. "Yeah, well you weren't there when your easy-to-handle Sith decided to go walkabout."

"You managed."

"Because he's in bad shape physically, and for whatever reason, he's reticent to use the Force."

"Fortunately, at this point."

"It won't be very fortunate when we get down to the storehouse," Mara reminded. "We need to get him back on track by then, or we get no codes at all."

"I'll have him eating out of my hand, by then," Shira assured, as she turned away. "Get some rest. You look like hell."

With a brief glance to the viewscreens where Antilles was sat to the desk in his room, scouring through the datapads they'd provided containing the Intel on Rv-9, Mara turned and left, heading for her room, her shower, and her bed.

.

.

.

.

.

She came into his rooms alone.

With a little prompting, his _hosts_ had provided Luke with what information they had from their two trips to the Rv-9 storehouse, and he was poring over it in an effort to ignore his cramping stomach and pounding head when Brie walked in, dressed in a dark, form-fitting jumpsuit, her trademark sultry smile twitching into being. When the door closed, she glanced just once at the security lens they had set up in a cage in the corner—as if a metal cage would stop him deactivating it, if he wanted to. As it was, that one brief glance told him it was deactivated; she never normally looked.

He watched her expectantly from his seat against the table as she sauntered forward, her blunt amber bob sliding against the pale skin of her neck. She leaned out and pushed his datapad aside to drop four small clear bags onto the table, each containing crystals, blood red in two, pale blue in the others, a few loose, ground fragments coloring their clear wrappers.

He lifted the nearest between his first two fingers and looked to her quizzically without speaking. She looked pleased with herself. He didn't know why; he generally sourced more than this a day, just to keep going. There was a tightness around her lips when she smiled that Jade didn't have; a hardness to those perfectly sculptured features as she tipped her chin just slightly in self-appreciation. "I had a few discussions with a man you know."

Luke raised an eyebrow, knowing she'd tell him. She was proud of her own machinations.

"Therne Gorn."

He had to smile; the man was a born survivor. "He still around?"

"He's at Fondor, with Moff Sekati. Told me all kinds of things…with a little encouragement."

"Well don't congratulate yourself too much. As I remember, he'd roll around with pretty much anything that had a pulse…and I'm not entirely sure that was a deal-breaker, either." He threw the red crystal packet back onto the table. "And just for your information, I've moved on since then. These days I use this kinda stuff to sweeten my caf on a morning. You want to buy my attention, bring me something worthwhile."

Her chin rose a fraction more, emphasizing those chiseled features. "Well then what do you want?"

"The light blue crystals—Lightening—I can use. The red is Ruby, it's too weak. Or get me some fralodiost particulate from the medicenter, and a kid's chemistry set, and I can cook the Ruby up into something stronger myself. And also—just so you know, since I assume you'll be the one out shopping for it alone—I use about this much a day."

"I'll get it."

"You're too kind."

"If you behave."

Luke smiled thinly as he leaned back. "Keep it, then."

"Do you want it or not?"

"I don't need it, if that's what you're implying." Could she hear his heartbeat when he spoke, betraying the truth as it pounded in anticipation. He held still, loathing his body's reaction, it's need.

Brie shrugged, sharp eyes still on him. "Have it, anyway."

"It's not much use to me like that."

She frowned and he hesitated, uncomfortable. He'd never really had to talk about it outside of a backroom den, where the language of usage was commonplace and he was just another anonymous stranger. Never as…as himself, to a peer. Never Luke Antilles talking. To look someone who didn't use in the eye, and say this of himself felt…objectionable. Distasteful. He could hear the defensiveness in his voice as he spoke; the half-hidden revulsion. "I need…something to…"

As if realizing, she reached into a thigh pocket and placed a clear inhaler on the table. Luke didn't look at it. "I don't use a hitter. It's for big doses—hits—not daily use."

"What do you use?"

He tilted his head, looking for control, even here. "You don't know? I'm disappointed. I smoke it. I need papers, dried leaf…"

"Is that it?"

"Something to light them with."

"I'll get them. For now, that's all I have."

He glanced away, and she remained still. Every single rational thought told him to walk away. To push the stuff away and wait. Don't use a hitter, it's a slippery slope. He knew that; he _knew_.

" _Kuso_." He swore as he took the damn glass hitter with unsteady hands, not looking at her.

With fast moves, he unwrapped the ice blue crystals and loaded two into the rub, combining them with just one Ruby—make it easier on the throat. He compressed the ground glass chambers into each-other with a few fast pushes against the inbuilt spring, until the crystals were reduced to a smooth, fine dust. A tap to knock it into the main body, and a half-turn to lock it—it wasn't like he hadn't used one before, at a push—and he shook the hitter rapidly. He looked up as he did so, and Brie was watching with interest, that hard half-smile fixed on her face. Still shaking it, he used his thumb to push back the vent and compressed the chambers into each other, forcing the dust out of the vent as he brought it to his mouth and inhaled.

It took about five seconds to hit. He stilled as it bloomed through him, warming his skin and making his limbs heavy…and now it didn't matter that she was watching, her curiosity and confidence that she could use him blaring out; didn't matter that she was here at all. Everything slowed and calmed and blanketed down as the drug wrapped him in a thick layer of disassociation, the cramps and shakes of days of withdrawal instantly gone. He let out a slow breath as his head lolled and he stared at the surface of the table, seeing fine fractures and imperfections that he'd never noticed before—why hadn't he noticed them? The small glass hitter in his hand was suddenly incredibly heavy, and he felt his arm begin to tremble as it fell to the table. His breathing slowed as his heart amped and pounded until each beat shook his entire frame, making him smile.

Brie slunk around the table in a loose slick of color, then pushed it loudly away from Luke so that he sank forward a little, one hand making it to his chair arm, the other falling to his side. She leaned forward to lift the hand which held the glass hitter as she poured herself onto his lap, so that she sat straddled across him. His body stiffened instinctively at the forced intimacy, muscles twitching as his head jerked back. Normally he would have wrenched free; simply stood or pushed her aside, but the spice killed his co-ordination and sapped his strength or will to care, so he let it be with only a brief, twitching shake of his head.

Taking the hitter from his loose fingers, she studied it. "Do I need to reload it?"

"… No. J'st twist it to r…raise the chamber again."

She leaned back to study it as he stared at her pulse against the pale, creamy skin of her throat. Twisting it to release the sprung chamber, she shook it then lifted it to his lips…he'd thought it was for her. Her fingers snaked into his hair as she leaned forward to whisper, "Breathe."

He breathed the fine dust in as she compressed the chamber, and it hit like a kick to the back of his head, making him jolt and close his eyes, head falling loose, supported by her hand in his hair—

Then she leaned in and kissed him, lips warm over his, making him laugh against them. Her hand slid up to pull at the zip fastening of the one-piece she wore, tugging it open below her taut stomach in a flash of creamy flesh. His temples were pounding now as the boost of spice took hold; too much, making his blood sing and his hands tremble. She ground against him, whispering words his brain could no longer decipher, and it was the most natural thing in the galaxy to slide his hands beneath the fabric of her open suit to touch the warmth of that smooth skin, wrapping his arms about her ribs to pull her in, hands to her back. That blunt amber bob brushed against his face as she leaned down to kiss him, its softness surreal, the only thing about her that possibly could be. Her muscles rippled beneath his hands as she moved against him, the bright russet of her hair clouding his vision as the spice dragged his last conscious thoughts to silence and his body acted on instinct alone…

.

.

.

There was no light in the room as he opened his eyes, but the sliver coming into his bedroom from the main room beyond made his head ache mightily, so that he flinched and turned away, muscles singing and stomach heaving. His dry mouth told a familiar tale of too much spice too quickly, even at the same time as the treacherous thought occurred that he could make all this go away by taking a little more; just break a small crystal and put it under his tongue, and the shakes and the cramps would dissolve in minutes.

He turned in sweat-wet bedsheets, unable to find a comfortable place to rest…and realized that he was naked.

What little flash-fragments of memory remained beneath the blanketing spice were all he needed to know. Leaning face-down on his elbows, he brought his hands up to his throbbing temples, trying to force his numb mind to figure out the complications he'd dropped himself into as he cursed quietly.

Great; fantastic. He felt his ire rising, both at himself for being so easily led, and at Brie for her premeditated incitement. If she thought this would make any difference, then she was sorely mistaken. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, making the room spin, but she'd at least had the good sense to leave him to stew alone.

Rising, he wrapped the sheet about himself and shuffled towards the fresher. On the way, he glanced out into the main room. The chair he'd sat on was still laid on its back, where it had toppled last night. On the table were the remaining packets of spice. He slowed and stared, then pursed his lips and headed for the fresher, reaching in to turn the water-shower on.

Leaning his forehead against the cool glass, he listened to its hiss as his temples pounded, chest tight… " _Kuso_."

Walking quickly back out into the main room he slammed his hand down onto the table, picking up the half-empty packet. Lifting a ruby crystal out with telltale trembling hands, he put it in his mouth and crushed it between his teeth, rubbing the underside of his tongue against the fragments as he headed for the shower.

.

.

.

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

.

.

In the back of his head, he was wondering why he stayed here. Every morning, when he rose, he pushed that question to the back of his thoughts and went through the motions of the day with neither interest nor conviction. And all the time, that same thought played out in a quiet whisper, coolly detached in the way he'd always been taught to analyze any situation: Why was he still here…

Because it had nothing to do with the failing Empire. He knew that. And it sure as hell had nothing to do with Brie, whose nightly visits had become routine.

"Ready?" Jade sauntered into the big troop practice hall behind Luke, and he turned slightly in acknowledgment.

The timetable had been established early; he rose, ate a light breakfast, then met Mara Jade for a few hour's 'practice', as it was euphemistically called. Reconditioning his out-of-shape body, was what it actually was. The first week had been embarrassing. He hadn't even had the stamina to train with the ship's troopers. But a seventeen year old body bounces back, and having trained daily all his life until nine months ago, and now getting such exotic luxuries as regular sleep and decent food, his form was returning with surprising speed.

It would probably have helped if he'd genuinely stopped the spice that Jade was so sure he was now clean of, but Brie returned to his quarters every night with a new fix—only ever sufficient to last another day. And aside from the occasional fit of self-disgust when he would throw or flush it when she'd left, that too had become habit.

Then again the fact was that he'd spent his entire adult life on spice, even when he was under Palpatine's command on Coruscant. So he knew that for him, returning to form wasn't dependent on being clean. In fact he probably operated better with it in his system than without.

That was what he told himself.

He had to wonder what Brie told herself. That she could control him, through this? She didn't seem that gullible. Yes, right now he was amenable, but that was because she was simply the easiest method to get what he wanted. That was it. Then again, maybe she considered this a game which they both knew the rules to…because they did both know its limits. This was control, on her part, and a willingness to let her think that, on his—though they were morphing into more complex plays as the rules redefined.

Last night and been the next game-changer he'd been expecting of her. Not this specific play, but something which would make all her effort worthwhile:

She'd been watching him as he sat casually smoking the spice she'd brought, her head tipped to one side, long legs crossed as she lounged in the chair opposite his. They sat to either side of the small table in his room, supposedly discussing the lay of the land for his upcoming introduction to their backer, Grand Moff Kessler. He was lazily listening, scrolling circles in a sheet of flimsiplast with a stylus he'd stolen from…somewhere, he couldn't remember exactly; it was a big ship. The ones from his room had been removed—not for the old reason that Indo had always fastidiously confiscated anything that Luke could draw with, but simply because they still didn't trust him entirely. They'd all been trained well enough to know that a semi-blunt object like a stylus was as efficient to an assassin as a sharp one. It was just a little messier. But it was now almost four incident-free weeks since he'd shot the guard outside his door. In fact, even that had only been a stun-shot—though to be fair, he hadn't known that.

Still, he was aware that there was more on Brie's mind tonight than their upcoming meeting with Kessler, and was waiting for her to come out with it in her usual guileful style…

She reached across to curl one finger into the hair behind his ear. "Black hair suits you."

"No it doesn't," he dismissed, leaning subtly back from her touch. He wasn't nearly spiced enough to tolerate that, yet.

"I like it. A Sith should have black hair…that's what Palpatine taught you to be, isn't it? He called you a Hand, but he taught you as a Sith, didn't he?"

Luke's eyes remained on the flimsyplast as he took a long pull from the spice stick in his other hand. "Yeah."

"… Teach me."

He looked up quickly. "What?"

"Teach me. I want to learn."

"Just like that?"

"I already know certain things. Lord Vader taught me a little, before I went into service for Palpatine. But I never…Palpatine never furthered my knowledge."

"No, he wasn't particularly the sharing type. I would imagine he'd rifled through and read you by the time your first knee hit the ground." She straightened slightly, and Luke tipped his head as he put the stylus down. "Oh don't worry, he probably liked what he saw. That doesn't mean to say he trusted it, though."

"He taught you."

"He needed me." Luke looked away. "In his own way."

"I'll bet he did," she said cryptically. "But now he's gone…which makes you the Master."

He glanced back, surprised how uneasy that made him. She only smiled, leaning forward and tilting her head coquettishly. "So teach me."

He pulled a breath in through the spice stick as he regarded her. If she thought that asking him now would make it easier to persuade him, or that he'd be more willing, she was mistaken. But that didn't mean that he wasn't still curious. "I assume we're talking about just you, here…and not Jade."

"It'd be so much easier to teach just me." She wrinkled her nose briefly. "More _intimate_."

"Easier still if we don't mention this to her at all, right?" Luke asked dryly. Brie leaned back, and he added, "Don't get me wrong, I'm just looking to clarify the ground rules."

"Jade already has her cause…her loyalties lie elsewhere."

Luke tilted his head. "And you seriously think that mine lie with you? Or is it just that you think I'm more of a pushover than Jade is."

"I think that despite this front you're putting up, you know damn well that you can't carry on as you have been. And I also think you're a pragmatist, like me."

"And Jade isn't?"

"She is. But she's has a streak of idealism in her—I'll bet Palpatine loved playing to that. See, Jade…she still has a Master. He's dead now, but I really don't think that changes anything for her. You…" Brie tilted her head provocatively. "You need something else entirely."

"And there's the problem, you see…you don't have anything I need."

Her lip twitched. "Oh, I think I have the very thing you need. More, even, than your spice. That, you can get anywhere…but if the last nine months have taught you anything, it's that the other thing you really need, you can't simply pick up on some street corner or backroom dive. In fact it's so rare that you didn't even bother coming back to the fold, because you knew no-one there had it—not what you needed."

Luke waited, drawn in, knowing she'd speak. That full-lipped smile grew a little wider, half-testing him, half congratulating her own analysis. "I can offer you a reason to get up on a morning. That's what you've lost…isn't it? That's what you're really bereft of. Oh, I know you don't care about other people's causes or crusades, you've made that clear. And you have no interest in backing the first Moff who pushed for supremacy simply because they have a few rank bars on their uniform or some vague claim to power. But you've had nine long months to think this over since Palpatine's death, and you know that you've got a great big void inside you where all that he was, one resided…and the spice just isn't filling it, is it?"

Luke held his eyes on her, internalizing all that she'd said; her opinions both of Jade, and of himself. Whether any, none or all were unsettlingly accurate, or not even close to the truth.

Brie leaned forward, green eyes sparking. "We can do this, Antilles. We can take power." Her dark lips twitched to a brief smile. "And the last time I checked the ground rules for that particular calling, it seemed pretty clear that among Sith, there's room for just two at the top."

"Two? How very gracious of you."

"You think you can make it alone?"

"You think I even care?"

"… Do you?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Maybe you should have worried about that before you dragged me off Rishi."

"You wouldn't do it alone," Brie said with confidence. "That's not what you do. If it was, you would have done so nine months ago. But even if you don't want power yourself, you still need that driving reason to get up every morning. Something of that significance, to motivate you…don't you? Because that's what you've always had. I can give you that."

"To your ends?"

"To ours… I told you, there's room for two at the top."

He looked her up and down, amused. "Vader sure as hell put a healthy dose of ambition in you when he trained you."

"And Palpatine knocked it out of you, clearly. But that's okay, I have enough for both of us. Provided you teach me."

He stared at her as he drew the last of the spice in a long breath, calculating… Not whether to teach her or not—he had zero intention of that—but how to use this to his advantage. And eventually he nodded slowly, hiding his calculations behind feigned deliberation… "I'll teach you."

He stubbed out the remains of the spice stick on the surface of the table as he spoke, then held out his open hand…and Brie smiled, sliding from her chair and towards him.

"I think we can do better than a handshake," she murmured, using her hip to push the table back so that she had room to slip one leg over his where he sat, and lower herself onto his lap. The kiss was long and thorough and self-assured. When she came up for air, Luke leaned back just slightly.

"Lesson one: Force-push." He glanced briefly to the side, where the light panel was placed close to the door, and the lights dimmed to darkness.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The Star Destroyer's journey towards their backer whose territories took in the tail end of the Hydian Hyperspaceway was taken at a leisurely pace. Ostensibly so that Brie and Jade could clean him up and prime him, but partly, Luke suspected, so that Brie could ensure that she had, to her mind, her claws in good and tight. He tolerated their attempts to coach him on the etiquette of meeting the loose conglomerate of Moffs who backed Grand Moff Kessler for almost two days before he pointed out that he'd grown up in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. Just because he didn't utilize civility on a daily basis, didn't mean that he didn't know it.

Whether he chose to play the game on the day was a different matter, of course. He suspected that his statement of that fact slowed the journey by at least another week whilst they worked to ensure that he did. It probably also didn't help that three separate times the shipboard barber was sent up to his quarters, and three times he failed to even make it over the threshold. Remaining on a military Destroyer for want of something better to do was one thing, but when he returned to the dirtside cantinas on dustball Rim planets, he didn't want to do so with a _Please pick a fight with me_ military crop.

It also amused him that, during a five-day stop at Vandelhelm to provide him with the kind of wardrobe that would be expected, the tailor was brought up to the ship rather than his making any trips planet-side—not that they didn't trust him, of course.

It did briefly occur to him that every time the tailor—a Neimodian—was onboard, that meant that there was at least one shuttle in the bay…and to be honest, for a good ten minutes whilst he was being measured up, he'd considered the possibilities. But it would have been strictly for show, his interest too piqued by this whole situation, so he'd let the moment pass. Twice in fact, when the tailor returned four days later, with a trunk full of sharply-tailored merchandise.

Luke was still staring at his tastefully updated reflection when the tailor left the second time, wondering why he felt so uncomfortable. It took long minutes for him to lock down the fact that it seemed, quite suddenly, as if no time had passed since he'd last been in the palace on Coruscant. Seemed as if, if he waited for just a few more days, the Star Destroyer he was traveling on right now would, naturally, return to Imperial Central. He would take his customary military-registry shuttle down to the surface, cursing all the way at the amount of security checks that slowed him on his approach to the palace, just as he always had. And when he landed…everything would be just exactly as it had been. His Master would be alive and well, scheming and strategizing, unwilling to let even the smallest increment of power slip from his grasp. His father would be stalking the halls, unaware of the truth and as fierce and indestructible as ever. Indo would be waiting patiently, calm and composed, quietly ensuring that Luke's life ticked like clockwork whether he wanted it to or not, always pushing but never judging. Han would be there—

Han… Luke's thoughts stuttered to a stop at the memory of the man who had waded into his life in the middle of a bar fight that Luke himself had started, knowing nothing about it other than that it seemed an unfair fight. It had stayed with him, the memory of the Corellian whose smart mouth belied an honorable core. Sufficiently that he'd begun to wonder what it might be like to have someone like that around. Sufficiently that he'd done something about it.

Turned out, having someone like that around didn't make things easier at all. It made him remember what it was like to live and to feel. To trust…only to have it all torn it away, the pain of betrayal that much worse for his having believed. That much worse, that it had been Han of all people, who had done so.

Was that what he'd been avoiding, when he'd disappeared down into the squalid underside of civilization? Had it been, at least in part, a way to forestall anything that would remind him? Was it more than a self-inflicted punishment for his failure to protect his Master?

As he stared, half-aware, he felt _it_ close around him and leech into the edge of his thoughts; that particular acuity which smothered and howled. Normally he'd do something—anything—to break the moment. Now, he gave it free rein; right now, he felt he deserved this

… _  
…_ … _  
_

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _He shouldn't be here, Luke knew_ _._

 _It was an old knowledge, deeply embedded, carrying with it an, agonizing flash of pain and bewilderment. Never do this; never try, never even consider it! That same outraged fury asked the opposite of him now. Demanded and commanded._

 _The dark sky rolled with heavy clouds, the pressure change as they rushed overhead pressing in against his throbbing temples._

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _That same squat, dour building hunkered low in a barren landscape, its densely dark entrance foreboding, forbidding. Every single muscle in his body held tensely frozen, screaming to turn away, to scrabble backwards even as the voice at his back pushed him on._

 _The roar, a yell part frustration, part demand. It screeched its fury inside his head, making him flinch…_

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _Yet he was inside, urged and driven on by the voice, through low-lit corridors heavy with dust. Footprints fell through endless halls, dim and silent. And still the voice, the command at his back: Here: now!_

 _Anticipation pulled when his feet dragged down musty corridors, cold and empty: secrets, long-hidden._

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _Couldn't they feel it? That silent sound, an absolute awareness which charged the air and scorched his senses…  
_ Wait, who were 'they'?

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _And then the room. That same room, every time. That precise, synchronized tack of technology. That steady, regulated hubbub of air, the tang of medically sterilized fluid_ _…_

 _What was here that he couldn't see? He could sense its edges, see every detail of the walls, smooth surfaces bathed in blood red light. But what caused the reflections which rippled across those pale walls? What was here, but withheld? Why?_

 _The voice rose to a shrieking demand, clawing for release. There—right there!_

 _But he couldn't see it, couldn't fathom what he was meant to do. Only that he should do it, now. It was vital; imperative—now!_

…

"Luke?"

He twisted about in shock as reality ripped through the vision, jarring as it dragged him back to the moment, leaving him to grasp for the edge of the table as his other hand went to his temples, pressing with the heel of his hand as he doubled over, hunching in reflexive defense.

Mara stepped quickly forward, reaching out to take his arm but stopping short, knowing in a way that Brie never seemed to grasp that touch always burned.

 _۰۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰۰_

The echo rifled through him with brutal force, knocking the air from his tight chest—

Couldn't she feel it?! His arms wrapped about his head as he crumpled to his knees, letting out a loud gasp part pain and part…what?

Frustration, that it wouldn't leave, this particular vision. Fear of the same, for the rest of his life. Desperation.

She was talking, and slowly he became aware of her words, softly spoken. "…you hear me? Luke… Luke?"

He pushed out a breath and forced muscles loose, letting his arms drop as he fought to bring his labored breathing under control. "I'm…I'm fine. I'm fine, let me just..."

He stumbled as he rose, still reeling, and again she reached halfway out and halted. Still shaking, he reached out and took her arm at the wrist, a curiously steadying presence as she guided him back to sit on the edge of his bed, Luke still struggling to pull fully into reality as if an outside force dragged him back. "It's never been that intense before."

"Did you…" She hesitated, as she crouched to sit back on her heels before him. "Was it a vision? I have them occasionally. Not like that, though."

"That wasn't normal." His voice was hoarse.

"What was it?"

He blinked, rubbing his temples as he shook his head. "Old vision…it was an old vision. I…I usually break it off, don't let it coalesce. This time I didn't."

"Why?"

He stared…why hadn't he? Why had he let a vision that he knew was always damaging, coalesce? He knew it intimately, scene for scene—yet he'd given it free reign.

To try one more time to understand it, that had been the reason. To learn how he could unlock and so dispel it. But why right now?

Mara's hand, resting on his leg, tightened slightly in reassurance and he looked to her. "I'm fine. Forget it."

"You're white as a ghost."

He shook his head quickly, the words unsettling…why? "I'm fine." He straightened, looking to dispel his discomfort at her concern by putting some humor into his voice as he walked unsteadily forward to study his reflection again, consciously turning the conversation from its uncomfortable track. "You know what this look needs?"

Jade cocked a knowing eyebrow at him as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "What?"

"A lightsaber. I hear that all the best-dressed Sith are wearing them this year."

"Very funny."

"I assume you still _have_ my lightsaber?" Luke pushed.

"It's safely stowed."

"You pulled the crystals," Luke said flatly, of the internal crystals necessary to focus the beam of any lightsaber. Without them, the hilt was nothing more than a metal tube with a ridiculously over-spec'd power supply.

Her lip twitched; "We may have made the decision to break it down—just to make it safe for storage."

She had a wicked, quietly deadpan sense of humor when the mood was on her. He liked it.

"Thanks," he said dryly. "D'you know how long it takes to focus those things?"

"You think I don't know how use one?"

"Of course you do. We used to spar." Jade blinked, and he sensed her surprise. "Did you think I'd forgotten? You used to come to the palace twice a week. You wore a COMPNOR athletic suit, and your hair was short—a bob at the sides, but cut really high at the back. I always thought you would've come down the corridors after me when the lesson was over, if you'd thought you'd've gotten away with it. You used to glare daggers at me through your fringe, and swing at me as if I'd just killed your pet pitten."

"Well it didn't seem to harm you any," she came back.

"Because I also used to do three days a week sparring with…" Luke slowed, the memory instantly turning cool. "with Vader."

"How could you fight Vader," Mara dismissed. "You were, what…eleven?"

"Around that. Palpatine was a great believer in instilling the important lesson that nothing in life is particularly fair."

"...How could you duel Vader?"

The memory flashed of a storm of black robes lifted by speed as heavy steps thundered forward. Of leather-gloved hands that would lunge for his neck or strike out in a blow with not a second's hesitation. Of whip-fast saber-strikes calculated to rake the surface of his skin with searing pain at every opportunity and misstep. Of his father, doing this—though neither had known that at the time.

He blinked quickly, dispelling the moment. "Badly—I have the scars to prove it."

It was a poor joke, and she frowned. "Is that why you hated him—all the reports said you were open enemies," she added, when he looked quickly to her.

"I don't know, maybe I did…for a while. A long while." This was too hard to think about right now, beneath those shrewd green eyes. But asked so directly, the question took him off-guard, making him speak his thoughts aloud. "Maybe I still do. Too much history, I guess. Made it hard to trust."

"Trust…? Why would you need to trust him?"

"Forgive, I suppose that's the word. Isn't that what you're meant to do—forgive the dead?"

He scowled as he said it, tied up in his own convoluted thoughts. Was that what he needed—wanted—to do? But there were too many memories, as he'd said; too much history between them. Maybe it was better that his father had died, rather than know that…

He glanced up, aware that he was being studied, but Mara's gaze was uncertain rather than judgmental.

"Why did you say you trusted me," she asked at last, her directness and the apparent sideways-step of the conversation again throwing him. "In the docking bay when you'd broken out, you said you trusted me…why?"

Luke stared for a second. "I guess…because you at least gave me a chance to go back into the room, when I broke out. I don't think Brie would have. I think in the time it took you to make the offer she would have already pulled the trigger."

"For all the good it did me," Mara murmured.

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

He actually sensed the moment; the brief flash of realization on her part as she looked down, uncertain how to reply. And instantly he was himself unnerved at the admission. The realization. Old habits took over and pulled him rapidly back to the safety of a third-party viewer in their conversation, calculating how to gain something from his slip. "What I can't understand is why you're here."

"Me?"

"Why are you helping her? Because you seem way too savvy to ever think this could possibly work as it is."

"We'll make it work."

There was a confidence in her voice that Luke knew damn well she didn't entirely feel, so he prized a little further. "Come on, doesn't this all seem a little like your _ally_ Brie is on some personal power trip that we should just step off of, at the first opportunity?"

She said nothing, but the tightness at the corner of her eyes made him push a little further. "Look at us—just look at us, properly. Not from the inside, from the outside. From the point of view of a Moff who's put in maybe fifteen or twenty years' service to claw himself to the top and already holds control of one, maybe two sectors. We're nobody— _nobody_."

"We have the backing of two sector Moffs, possibly more within weeks."

"And you think we can hold them together? Us? This is _not_ what we do. We're trained to work behind the scenes, under the radar."

"We're trained to identify and implement small changes which will reap big benefits—and that's exactly what we'll be doing here."

"No, this is totally different. The kind of power Shira's after requires manipulating things on a wide scale. It's about knowing the players, the law, the internal politics. Who'll cave, who'll break entirely under pressure, who'll support you and for what price. Who won't, so you need to remove them early on, before your position makes it difficult to do so invisibly. It's having the authority and the nerve to keep on moving all of that around every hour of every day to take advantage of each new event as it plays out. Politicians, Moffs and royal houses _rule_ …not us."

"That doesn't mean—"

"Look…look at us!" He took her by the wrist and pulled her with little resistance to stand before him in front of the mirror, as he looked over her shoulder. "Actually look, and see what we are. What do you see?"

"I see two of the highest trained soldiers in th—"

"No, that's what you _know_. I'm asking what you _see_. Because let me tell you, I see two people who aren't even old enough to officially join the military yet, let alone take power. And believe me, I won't be alone in that."

"We do this in the Emperor's name, not ours."

Luke shook his head at her reflection. "The Emperor's not here any more, Mara. He's not here. And yes, the Empire's breaking apart without him, but we simply don't have the facilities or the influence to change that. That's what you're looking at right now; you're looking at two people with good intentions…and zero chance of pulling this off."

"Shira thinks—"

"Shira thinks a lot of things, and they tend to revolve around Shira. She's not looking for anything more noble than an opportunity to parlay herself the maximum benefit out of this—see how much power and status she can get under her belt. She's not working to hold the Empire together, she's looking to let any part of it that she can't personally control fall apart, because that's the best-case scenario for her; that it breaks down into smaller, individually controlled sectors which she might just have a real chance at, and she knows it. She may tell you it's a stepping-stone to a re-unified Empire, but only to keep you here. To keep you willing. To use you for as long as she can. Because we are both, believe me, expendable in that scenario."

Mara stared at Luke's reflection. "You really believe that, don't you?"

He nodded slowly. "I know it."

"Have you read her thoughts?"

"No…but I will, if that's what it takes to convince you."

"And then what?"

"We leave," Luke said—wasn't that obvious? "Leave her to do her own graft. I don't _care_ if she takes power in a few sectors—let her have them. I'm just not willing to be the tool she picks up to do so, then drops by the wayside when she's got what she wants."

"She'd come after you—she would. From the very beginning, she kept on saying that we needed you—that we needed a Sith."

Luke stepped back slightly. "Yeah, well, I can disabuse her of that very quickly," he murmured.

Mara tilted her head, the shade of a smile on her lips. "Oh, like you did on Rishi, you mean?"

He had to grin. "Momentary blip. I would've left when I first woke up tied to that chair, but…"

"But what?"

"Nothing."

"So not, 'But I was tied up and locked down'?" She'd folded her arms, but he knew that for once her scorn was strictly for show.

"You think I couldn't have used the Force to just pull that chair apart?"

"Not before we'd put a stun-bolt in you."

"That would've been difficult to do, considering that you'd've both already been out cold on the floor."

"Well don't you have an answer for everything."

Luke tilted his head, aware from her tone—her whole body-language—that they were charting new territory here. "So people keep on telling me…though not usually as politely as that."

"Polite?" She'd turned slightly towards him echoing his stance without even realizing it. "Well I've been called a lot of things in my time, but that's a new one."

"Yeah, I wouldn't get used to it, if I were you."

"So if you have an answer for everything…make one for this."

"This?"

"This…all this. Find a path to pull Palpatine's Empire back together."

He stepped back, the lightness gone from his tone. "I can't. There isn't one—not from here."

"There has to be." Her voice was half pushing, half pleading. "I swore an oath to Palpatine when I was twelve years old, to uphold his will and his Empire. I'm not prepared to let that go yet."

Luke sighed as he looked down in avoidance, unwilling to go through the same hard facts one more time.

Mara hesitated, her voice quiet and serious. "Sometimes I dream he's still alive. I dream that I'm stood before him…actually, I dream that I have my back to him—that I've actually turned by back to him—and he's shouting. He's livid, screaming at me in fury, but…but I still have my back to him…"

It surprised him for a second; that she'd had the same dreams that had woken him in a cold sweat too many times to count. But then they'd had the same upbringing under the Emperor's influence, he supposed. Luke's had been more suffocatingly close in the palace itself, but…

Perhaps that was why she could still look on Palpatine with genuine devotion rather than the arduous ground-in sense of obligation that had bound Luke; she'd had the luxury of safe distance. He wondered briefly if he would have been the same, given that extra space, and was surprised how much he longed for it in that moment. For that sense of a calling, of utter devotion, devoid of complications. A reason for rising every morning. For life itself. Robbed of that singular purpose when he'd uncovered the truth of Palpatine's manipulations, he'd struggled in the void ever since, searching for direction.

Funny; he hadn't realized until this moment, until seeing it in another, how important it had been to him. How much he had been led to identify himself entirely in those terms. How much the loss of it had crumbled his foundations. He'd been brought up to idolize one man…and he hadn't ever stopped—not really. Despite everything, he hadn't stopped venerating his Emperor. He'd had his faith shaken, yes, but had his old Master been alive, Luke had no doubt that all that had happened would have amounted to little more than a brief blip in his loyalty, smoothed over with shrewd and knowing expertise, and he would have been serving with just as much zeal today as he'd ever had.

Had Palpatine been alive…

He sighed as he glanced down, pulled in by their shared past and driven to offer some kind of succor, aware of the incessant ache of his own nightmares. "We all have those dreams. I have them myself, sometimes."

"Shira doesn't."

"Yes she does. She must do." Or maybe not; her ambition looked to her own future, not past failures.

Mara glanced down. "I've failed him, in the dream." There was so much pain in her voice. It seeped out into the Force and wrapped like wire about her quiet conviction. "I've failed him—I still am doing, every single day—and that's why he's shouting."

"I know." Perhaps there was a little too much empathy to his words, because she glanced to him, and he shrugged. "It's the way he was, that's all. He made everyone feel like that."

"You speak so harshly of him, sometimes." Her words were a quiet whisper, and in that moment the awareness that she was disappointed hurt him as much as the undoubtable knowledge that his Master would have been.

"I knew him well," Luke murmured at last. "Too well."

"The day of the assassination, at Corsin Drydock. If you could have…?" Mara faltered, eyes lifting to his.

Luke didn't hesitate. Even now, knowing all he did, he didn't hesitate in voice or spirit. And what was so broken inside of him, that he was still in some way proud of that?

"If I could have saved him—if I could have swapped my life for his—I would have. Gladly."

.

.

.

.

.

.

He was sat to the head of a mirror-polished oval table in one of the command rooms to the rear of the bristling Star Destroyer's bridge, with Jade and Brie to the opposite side. Strategies were on the table; the relative values of rolling up at the Rv-9 storehouse's host planet Rhen Var, inside of the Rebel-controlled Outer Rim territories, in a very visible but equally very defendable Star Destroyer, as opposed to simply taking an unmarked shuttle and going under cover.

It wasn't where his thoughts were; they lingered instead on the first consideration that had struck him when he'd walked in here this morning. The same one that kept on ringing through his head every day, now… Why was he here? Or, more specifically, why was he _still_ here…

He had a sheet of flimsy over the standard viewscreen set into the desk before him, its illuminated rendition of the Tobali system glowing, ignored, through the flimsiplast which he drew on; a pair of long-lashed eyes beneath eyebrows arched in shrewd awareness. The irises were barely shaded, only enough to give them the impression of a fluid gleam. The only stylus he had was standard-issue black, but had he held others, he knew exactly what color he would have used…

Abruptly he stopped, scratching a fast scribble over the image. He knew, in fact, exactly why he was here—and he was trying hard to ignore it. That, and the practiced, proficient part of him which recognized that not so long ago he would have been expected to do something about this situation. A lifetime of training ticked and turned the cogs with unerring effect as his eyes raised to Brie, her attention on the holo-map as she spoke. He wouldn't do it, of course. Not any more. There was no point in eliminating either of them, any more. No point in dismantling this. He had no Master left to give the order, no-one to protect power _for_.

"Hey," Jade was watching him from beside Brie, green eyes narrowed.

Luke straightened. "What?"

She arched an eyebrow in judgment, and he hitched a shrug. "Daydreaming," he said, unabashed. Let them think less of him; it didn't matter.

"Great, that's very reassuring."

"We've been through this ten times already, you're being too cautious. You take the _Steadfast_ in."

"Into Rebel-held territory?"

"Rhen Var's not that far into their territory, and they're already stretched thin. They don't have the available procedures, organization or fleet power to police even a quarter of the territory they claim to hold. I've been on the ground out there, and I can tell you for a fact that local enforcement is the norm, and since Rhen Var's uninhabited, it has none. Chances are that the Rebels will have nothing in-system which can pose any threat to a Star Destroyer, anyway. Even if we get spotted, we'll be long gone before they can get anything close."

"And if they happen to have a presence in-system?"

"You get rid of it! You're in a Star Destroyer, that's what they're designed for."

"A Star Destroyer that we can't afford to lose."

"You won't lose it," Luke dismissed. "Give it to me, and I won't even put a scratch on it." There wasn't much he was confident about in himself, but years of having military strategy and tactics drummed into him twelve hours a day, seven days a week by Indo's endless tutors, as well as practical field experience in the fleet for the last few years of Palpatine's reign, young as he was, had given Luke faith in this at least. Not faith, perhaps, but…recognition—of his innate ability for destruction.

Brie nodded. "Toprawa."

Luke blenched, surprised she knew, then made himself meet her eyes. "Toprawa was an exception. I needed to suppress an entrenched insurrection and be gone from the system before dawn. It was necessary."

Backed into a corner by Vader and furious at it—at his father tying him down onboard the Star Destroyer _Immortal_ under the pretext of subjugating a surface rebellion on Toprawa—Luke had been forced to watch as Vader had broken orbit in pursuit the Rebel blockade runner _Tantive_ , identified using leads that Luke himself had uncovered. The Rebels on Toprawa's surface had overrun a series of Imperial military bunkers and were dug in safely below ground with heavy shielding, power generators and ordnance. A top-grade officer might have secured the situation planet-side in two days, but Luke had wanted to be on Vader and the _Tantive's_ tail by dawn... So he'd taken the _Immortal_ into low orbit and ordered a massive aerial bombardment to expose the protected bunkers, followed by a close-surface TIE bomber barrage, then finally HAVr-nines with AT-ST support.

In just nine hours he'd razed the area to dirt and rubble, and Imperial ground troops had found the Rebels dead, most by injury, the remainder by suicide pills.

He'd realized only in retrospect that it had been his fury at Vader that had made him act. Though it had taken the discovery that the leader of the entrenched Rebel group was a woman from Han's past—had taken Han's devastation and grief—to make Luke look at his own actions through another's eyes. Not his Master's eyes; Palpatine had been so pleased with the ruthlessly decisive action that it had earned Luke the rank of Commander. And not through Indo's; this was what Luke had been trained to do from childhood by the Viscount's incessant chain of military tutors…but Han's.

Because it had, in the last year of Luke's servitude to Palpatine, slowly become Han's opinion that had mattered. Han had become, without Luke even realizing it, an external substitute for the conscience that had been so assiduously drained from him since the age of seven. Had become Luke's permission, for the first time in a decade, to _feel_. Because of Han, from that day to this, Toprawa had been a lasting regret. One more reason to blur past memories, and mar his mind with spice.

Because he knew that despite everything, given the same provocation today, those same childhood lessons would cut perfectly in. And he would react according to every chastisement and reinforcement he'd ever received.

With his back to the wall…he would react as a Sith.

Brie moved in her chair, green eyes narrowed on him. Uncomfortable beneath the close scrutiny, Luke pushed decisively on. "The point remains, taking the _Steadfast_ into low orbit over Rhen Var is still the most efficient method of getting what you need."

"We have just two Star Destroyers at our disposal from present backers," Jade said. "One of which is still in Kessler's territory. You mess this up, and you lose one half of our assets."

"If I get it right you gain the only completed Super Star Destroyer in existence, and a Death Star. I'd call those good odds." He grinned. "You need to grow a pair."

Jade raised an eyebrow. "And you need to stop thinking with them."

He laughed. "If I was, I'd tell you to screw this Rhen Var thing and just get me four Destroyers, and two weeks. Then I'd take out the main Rebel baseship."

"Four Destroyers to take out _Home One?"_ Brie asked.

"If you read the whole of the Toprawa report, you'll know that we nearly did it then."

"Nearly being the operative word." Jade said.

"Because my—" he paused almost imperceptibly, to correct himself. "Because Vader split the attack to go after a second target."

"I read the report," Jade said. "You cited Lord Vader's decision to attack the Rebel flagship as a grave tactical error."

"Because that wasn't our mission objective at the time, not because it wasn't achievable."

Brie leaned back. "You're telling me that it I give you four Star Destroyers, you'll give me _Home One_?"

Luke almost did it—almost said, _Yes_ …and then he paused, wondering what the hell he was doing, letting himself be pulled in. Being on a Destroyer, in a uniform—though he still hadn't once put that damn Ubiqtorate jacket on—talking tactics and deployment in a Bridge command suite, validating past actions, planning new ones… He had, just for a moment, fallen back into that mindset.

Unsettled, he rose quickly. "Do what you want, I don't care."

Mara stood, the action breaking his intention to leave as he looked to her.

She nodded once. "We'll take the _Steadfast_ in."

Still seated, Brie glanced between them, then nodded. "We go in."

.

.

.

.

.


	6. Chapter 6

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER SIX**

.

.

Mara stood to the far side of the otherwise empty practice hall, watching Luke Antilles, wondering if he was ready for the meeting tonight with Shira's carefully-cultivated Moff backers. He'd settled a lot since he'd arrived—the odd self-distancing blowout aside—and though she didn't think he shared their goals, there was something there. Some sense of a communal past; of mutual allegiance and doctrines which tempered his reactions…somewhat.

Perhaps this was always the way with Sith; that they were solitary, by nature. Angry by nature. At the galaxy, at the fates, at himself it seemed, with Luke Antilles. Certainly he'd come straight down here from the pointedly curtailed meeting in the command room, practically radiating tamped down fury as he'd picked up a wooden bokken—the only weapon they'd allowed him, though he'd laughed and asked whether they actually believed that he either needed or couldn't get hold of one if he so desired—and activated three remotes.

Three. Without the Force. He still wouldn't invoke it day to day, that either she or Shira could detect, though he'd assured them that there'd be no problems when they arrived at Rhen Var. _'Like falling off a log,'_ he'd said.

' _Falling off a log can be painful,'_ Mara had observed, and he'd turned that impervious grin on her—the one that she'd come to realize had nothing behind it.

' _Since you're just watching, it's no skin off your nose either way,_ he'd dismissed. _'Don't worry, I can do your precious job blindfold.'_

Always so defensive, a hundred walls in place… but then she remembered him like that even when they were children. The silent shadow whose utter, unquestioning loyalty had always stood between herself and her Master, even when he hadn't been in the room.

Palpatine had been her benefactor, her savior, the center of her galaxy. She didn't remember life before him; it had started with the day that he'd bent to take her chin in his hand and lifted her face to his. She had no memory of where she'd been, or with who…only of his hand reaching out to her.

" _What pretty eyes, child."_

She remembered his words exactly; the tilt of his head, the twist of his slim, mobile lips. The gold of those ocher eyes had been the sun itself.

" _Ah, but they must see only me."_

And they had. Everything that she had done from that point on had been for him, desperate for acknowledgment from the master who had alternately lavished her with attention for brief, precious hours and then ignored her for weeks, sending her away without explanation, save that she must train—always train.

But then he had been so busy, of course. The Emperor himself! The galaxy had turned by his word and his will, she knew that—had been taught it from an early age. What right had she to expect any attention at all, from one such as he? If she wanted his praise, then she must earn it.

It had been a hard path of trials and exertion, a lifelong commitment that she'd dedicated herself to without reserve. A worthy one. Service to the Emperor himself—to uphold his law in the galaxy he had created, against any and all dissenters.

She had trained first and foremost to be a soldier, specializing in infiltration, espionage and assassination. And as she'd grown and proved her worth, she'd been trained personally by her master to hear his voice wherever she travelled, through the Force. To reply, in kind. To be his will, his Hand.

Those days—those brief, brilliant days when he had instructed her—had been utterly inspiring. She had been, for a short time, the center of his attention, the apple of his eye. But even then, even in those luminous moments…she'd been aware of the boy who had hovered in the shadows, silent and withdrawn.

Installed in rooms near the palace, she'd been awarded the opportunity to have lightsaber practice with someone of her own age twice a week. Actually in the palace, with the Emperor himself in attendance! When she'd arrived, she'd been shocked to see that it was with the unnamed, silent boy, a year younger and three inches shorter than she. He would show up trailing the Emperor in whatever he'd seemed to be wearing at the time, no consideration appearing to have been given to their sparring.

It drove her crazy that every time—every damn time—he'd beaten her. Of course she had only been learning two years, just two two-hourly lessons a week besides that one, whilst she'd learned over time by listening to others talk that the boy trained for hours daily, and had done since the age of seven. So despite his disadvantage in weight and height, it was hardly a fair fight. It frustrated her even more that when their Master did attend, he would often stop the duel and walk over to tirelessly correct some aspect of the boy's stance or hold on his hilt, or the set of his body, yet he rarely did the same for her—rarely even looked, it seemed. On those brief occasions that he did notice her it had often been when the boy himself had glanced uncertainly to his Master for arbitration on what he clearly considered a fault. She'd tried so hard to internalize and incorporate her master's advice each time, but it seemed that she was forever invisible, compared to his little prodigy.

She remembered burning with jealousy at the attention he'd received every time Palpatine had approached him, long fingers threading into the boy's pale hair as he'd tilted his head to the correct angle once, gently shaking it like a stern indulgent uncle to reinforce the quietly uttered lesson as Luke had held still, eyes down, deeply attentive.

She saw her master often in those days on Coruscant—at least once or twice a week—and over time she'd realized that the boy was always there, still and silent, hidden well back in the shadows even when she was the center of her Master's attention. She remembered distinctly the rush of adrenaline and swell of emotion at such precious times; that she'd been at once terrified and adoring of this incredible man around whom all things so patently revolved…yet he took the time to acknowledge her, narrow lips pulled to a thin smile. If they were walking he would occasionally rest a hand on her shoulder, the simple act making her glow with pride.

And if they did walk, the boy would always follow ten paces back, eyes down. If ever she looked at him he would glance for the barest moment, then look away. But still he'd follow, her master's silent steadfast little shadow. She'd worked so hard to be the center of his attention, aware that everyone around him venerated this man who took the time to talk with her and walk with her. But always, sooner or later, it was time to leave…and always, as she'd bowed reverently and stepped away, she'd see the boy still remaining, in the shadows of the room.

Always he stayed, and she was made to leave.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched Antilles now. Watched the speed and fluidity of his moves through even the most testing kata, the kind of finesse came only with endless practice, so that muscle memory provided the flow with none of the lag of conscious thought. In the weeks he'd been here his body had recovered surprisingly well. He was still rake-thin, pale-skinned against black-dyed hair, his stamina lacking, but when he moved it was with an agile grace that told of deadly ability. And in his eyes was the cool willingness to live up to that.

What must he have been like, when he had executed their Master's commands? There would have been no hesitation, no mercy. She remembered on one rare occasion when she'd been perhaps sixteen years old, being in the Emperor's presence and deeply uncomfortable as he'd railed in fury at some Special Forces Commander who had failed to complete a clandestine mission, yelling that it seemed he must send a boy to do a man's job, and summoning Luke Antilles from the shadows of the room. He would have been barely sixteen at the time, and as slight and gaunt as he was now. He'd stood straight and calm, taken the order, and bowed, no hint of uncertainty or misgiving as he'd walked from the vast receiving room.

She'd read on Intel channels three days later that the assassination had taken place. The Moff whom Palpatine had wanted very visibly removed, but with no traceable link to himself, had been onboard his own Star Destroyer when a young man wearing an Imperial Fleet tech uniform had simply walked onto the Bridge and shot him three times—two to the chest, one to the head; a classic execution—then simply walked off in the pandemonium. Oh they'd tried to stop him, of course; there were nineteen other injuries, no deaths, but he'd made it back to the docking bay that he'd somehow managed to slip past innumerable safety protocols to land in, and left.

How had she been sure it was him, when a common blaster had been used, and all the internal security lenses had been hacked and deactivated for the duration of the hit? In all the statements from experienced, veteran soldiers, not one had been able to describe the assassin—no-one could quite recall what he looked like.

A clean, flawless kill.

He caught the final active remote with a backhand swipe of the bokken he held, body bent low, shoulders angling to put power into the swing, head down—had he been looking at all? A clean, flawless strike. She watched him straighten, chest still heaving as he glanced to her momentarily, a question in those shrewd eyes, half-hidden by sweat-spiked hair.

He had a nice face. Her eyes moved once down his body and back up to that coolly calculating stare. It reminded her of someone…

She smiled, and walked forward.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The scattering of Moffs and high-level brass who milled about the ISD _Kreiger's_ Command Quarterdeck—one of the more formal meeting spaces onboard a Star Destroyer—murmured amongst themselves, empty smiles and powerplays par for the course, at this level. Though no-one tried either on Grand Moff Saldago Kessler, whose Star Destroyer this was.

Moving quickly and innocuously to one side as she entered, briefly tugging at the cuffs of her immaculate dress uniform out of old habit, Mara narrowed her eyes a fraction to take in the gathering, and Grand Moff Kessler in particular. Watching a master work the room. Onboard his own ship within his own territory—the vast, but last remaining holding of Imperial systems in the Outer Rim—Kessler was the ultimate carnivore, the type of man who only one such as Palpatine had been able to hold down.

With his death, then, Kessler had been quick to utilize the opportunity presented and widened his own territories in quick and ruthless fashion, eyes forever on the next system even as he shook the present sector-Moff's hand.

It was the kind of ambition that was, in one, both incredibly dangerous and, if pitched correctly, easy to use. Or it would have been, had his ego and his temper not made this a risky game. Still, Shira seemed confident, and it was she who was the liaison for their deal with Kessler. She was the face, the front, the envoy. Whilst Mara was perfectly capable of playing such games, given the choice she preferred to let Shira partake of this particular milieu—something she seemed particularly suited to.

Each had their own strength; Mara got things done. Shira ensured no-one stopped her in the process. It had worked well up until now. But then up until now, Antilles hadn't been part of that equation. Which was why Mara felt the muscles of her shoulders and back tighten as she slowed and moved to the side, allowing Shira a clear path to walk forward and salute Moff Kessler, with the intention of introducing their new asset to him first. He was, after all, the senior dignitary here.

They'd planned late into the night for a number of scenarios, she and Shira. In all of them, their crowding Antilles whilst providing him with an audience whom he'd already established a…let's say less than co-operative front with, seemed a risky course. Better, then, to try to play this down as much as possible on the day, with the hope that being in what had to be the familiar territory of a military assembly induced Antilles to act accordingly.

Moff Kaigi, whose territories ran adjacent to Moff Kessler's and who presently backed him, but had expressed a quiet… _interest_ in Mara and Shira's undertaking, held almost equal rank and might otherwise have been Mara's first choice to ease Antilles into the situation. He was older—past his prime—but played the political game with practiced and impersonal ease. Antilles wouldn't _like_ him, but he would appreciate a professional at work.

But even aside from the half-completed Death Star within Kessler's territories, he still held greater physical resources. In these days of fractured assets and wary affiliations, that was everything—and he knew it. More importantly, he knew that everyone else knew it, and so he expected to be treated accordingly.

For Mara, it was unpleasant but not unbearable. For Shira, always working every angle, it seemed second nature. For Luke Antilles…since he'd grown up in the Imperial palace close to Palpatine, Mara had to assume that he was as versed in this kind of thing as Shira always just naturally seemed to be…but those words on his psyche profile just kept on floating to the fore of her thoughts: _confrontational, deliberately obstructive._

It had very likely been running through Shira's head too, because as they'd arrived at the doors to the Command Quarterdeck, Shira had leaned impulsively forward in a rare moment of nerves, to grab Antilles' arm before they entered.

"Remember, these people are expecting to see one of the Emperor's main enforcers walk into the room. Act like it. No matter what they throw at you."

Antilles had run his finger beneath the tight stand collar of the expensive new dress suit. Not out of stress, Mara suspected—his composed indifference in the shuttle over here hadn't seem faked—but simple discomfort with an edge of distaste, that he was here at all…which likely made Shira's last minute direction that much less welcome and more galling to him.

"Getting cold feet already?" he'd asked.

"No, I know you can do it. The question is, do you want to?"

"Maybe you should have thought to ask that around about the time you had me tied to that chair at Rishi," Antilles had murmured.

Shira had bitten at her lower lip, but smiled. "Come on, don't you want to get some real power back?"

Antilles had leaned in close as if to whisper…and Shira couldn't help but react, tilting her head so that Antilles' lips touched lightly to her ear to murmur, "If I do, it'll be me wielding it, and not you." He'd straightened to wink coolly. "Get used to that."

Turning, he'd walked immediately to the door so that it auto-opened, cutting off any reply that she might have had, and forcing both Mara and Shira to step forward at speed, in order that a united front was presented as they entered.

Given his words, Mara might have been tempted to try to ease Antilles into this by re-introducing him to some of the officers whom he likely already knew; there were a few from the _Relentless_ whom he would have flown with on occasion, before Palpatine's death. And even Moff Kaigi had apparently met Antilles, guest lecturing on two of Carida Academy's vanguard programs which Antilles had attended, so there was at least a commonality there. But etiquette dictated that he be introduced to the most senior officer first…and that meant Grand Moff Kessler.

So Mara could do nothing but watch with baited breath as Shira passed her to maneuver Antilles through the throng with one hand placed to the small of his back—intimately so, it seemed to Mara, as she tilted her head to watch. Then again she also couldn't help but observe how he subtly moved aside in evasion.

"Sir," Shira's self-satisfied grin held as she stopped before Moff Kessler, apparently unaware of Antilles' avoidance, "may I present Commander Antilles. Commander, this is Grand Moff Kessler, who maintains Imperial power and presence in the Rim systems. Our Star Destroyer _Steadfast_ is part of his fleet."

He was a big man. Mara had thought that the very first time she'd seen him. Hefty and imposing, and more than willing to use that and any other advantage to sway those who might be subdued. Typical Moff. He took a step closer than he had any need to, making Mara instantly calculate that self-imposed personal space that Antilles maintained about himself. So when he didn't back up in response, she felt the first twist of nerves that this might not go to plan.

Kessler leaned forward to study him openly. "You don't look the way I remember Antilles looking."

Forced to tilt his head to look the man in the eye, Antilles raised an eyebrow just the barest fraction. Probably no-one else in the entire room noticed, but Mara felt that little twist in her gut tighten, like the temperature had cooled several degrees.

Kessler angled his neck to take the whole of Antilles in as he spoke, his opinion very clear in the tone of his voice. "You see, I enjoyed the kind of privileged position that entitled me to attend Court on such occasions that my demanding schedule in the Galactic Rim enabled me, so I saw… _you_ several times. I remember you differently."

Antilles simply stared, making no attempt to explain or validate his changed appearance, leaving Shira to step in to fill the silence.

"Commander Antilles has recently completed a mission in the occupied Rim systems which required undercover action."

"Indeed. Did it take him the better part of ten months?"

"There were several separate situations which needed to be dealt with, Sir," Shira replied smoothly, of the cover-story and documentation that she and Mara had spent weeks constructing. "His mission debriefs are stored on the secure internal system, if you need to—"

"No, I'm sure you were most thorough in your efforts, Lieutenant Brie." Kessler straightened to loom over both Antilles and Shira as he lifted his gloved hand just slightly to silence her. "Has Commander Antilles lost his voice, perhaps?"

Mara's breath stilled as she stared, dreading Antilles' reply before he'd even spoken the words…

"No, it's more obvious than that. My activities aren't answerable to you." Antilles paused a half-beat. "You're simply not far enough up the chain of command."

A muscle in Kessler's cheek twitcehd briefly. "Oh? The last time I checked—independently of Lieutenant Brie's glowing report—you held the rank of Commander. I hate to be the one to correct your misconception, but Grand Moff far outranks Commander in every military force I've ever known."

"Firstly, my rank was within the Ubiqtorate, which isn't part of the military. They've never answered to it or its conventions. And secondly, if you check your Intel files a little closer, you'll see that although I was attached to the Ubiqtorate and held a rank there on the Emperor's direct command, I was never sworn in. Which means that either way, I've never been a member of any military."

"Well then perhaps you shouldn't be here."

"I'm beginning to think that myself," Antilles came back without hesitation, voice deceptively soft. "As an addendum to Lieutenant Brie's doubtless meticulously detailed account of my actions of the last nine months, I'd like to add that I spent a good deal of that time watching with growing incredulity whilst power-hungry Moffs managed to fracture what was once the most powerful navy in galactic history into a sad little opera of in-fighting, to fuel their own petty ambitions."

The silence dragged for long, long moments…..before Shira nodded, working to retrieve the situation. "We're fortunate to have found the support of the few staunch and loyal Moffs left. Without the backing of those present, the true Empire would have floundered."

Kessler's eyes hadn't yet left Antilles', who held that gaze in silence as Shira smoothed the waters.

"Your cooperation for this mission to Rhen Var is invaluable, Grand Moff Kessler, and will enable us as a group to gain supreme power and standing amongst the self-serving renegades who have the gall to still claim themselves Imperial Moffs."

Antilles had taken a breath, likely to correct her in his own deliberately blunt fashion, by the time Mara stepped in to touch lightly on his elbow, knowing the intrusion would break his attention. "I'm sorry I don't mean to interrupt, but one of the officers who served with you onboard the _Relentless_ is hoping to speak with you again, Commander Antilles."

He allowed himself to be guided away as Shira remained with Moff Kessler, but was no more than six paces before he whispered, "What, am I an embarrassment to you already?"

"No, you're an embarrassment to yourself," she came back, voice low. "More importantly you're an embarrassment to the memory of the man who trained you."

He glared at her for long moments…then snapped about.

"Luke!" Mara hissed his name as she snatched for his arm—too late.

Shira was still midstream when he reached her "—that the whole operation more than pays for itself in terms of—"

Kessler cut her off with a swipe of his black-gloved hand. "I've been fuelling and funding your little jaunts to the Tion Cluster for months now. It's time to cut th—"

"Then you have an alternative?" Antilles interjected evenly, bringing Kessler's eyes to him.

The man didn't try to hide his distaste. "I thought you'd left to speak to someone."

"This is more important."

Mara froze, seeing no easy way to pull him away a second time…but somehow, feeling less inclined to try. His face was as unreadable as always, but his head was dipped slightly, his manner…if not respectful, then at least amenable as he continued, his tone the embodiment of professional interest.

"I'd be interested to know what other viable plans you have in motion to gain access to the hardware you need, in order to ensure some respect in the current climate? If so, then you're ahead of all your competitors, Moff Kessler…and believe me, gaining control of the only completed Death Star in existence is forefront on every highly motivated Moff's mind right now. Are you intending to dismantle the entire logic system, perhaps, to bypass the codes? That's quite an undertaking, given that the codes are sub-system hardwired. How many years do you anticipate dedicating your full hard-tech crew to it? Two? Three, surely?" That polite veneer of eager interest was starting to fall to a fraction, his voice hardening. "And where does that leave the rest of the ongoing completion process…assuming it _is_ still ongoing, given the investment of labor and materials necessary?"

Kessler's lip twitched. "Your intel is flawed, Commander—or perhaps you're simply unable to keep up. We already have an outline agreement in place with Moff Sekati, whose shipyards at Fondor have a large percentage of the required—"

"Yes, I heard. An agreement based on what, precisely? You don't have the resources to pay for all that you need, so I assume it's really more of an uneasy alliance, rather than the business agreement you'd like it to be. I'm curious as to what they're asking in return, because the fact is that given your reserves you need them as much as, if not more than, they need you. If I can see that—" Antilles smiled dryly, "with all my flawed intel and inability to keep up—then I'm sure Moff Sekati can. I'm also sure a man of your standing recognizes that such a situation doesn't make for easy alliances. It creates the kind that require vast amounts of time and energy to be expended in dealing with internal wrangling and putting out bushfires, until you break apart under the strain…leaving both parties weaker than when they first amalgamated, and ripe for takeover."

"So now you're a tactician?"

"Four years of one-on-one lessons in established military tactical foundations under retired Moff Garreck Bain, three studying the Raft Lateral Tactical System, and a Special Commendation in remote Advanced Military Command Tactics via Carida," Antilles came back smoothly before adding without pause, "Benefits of a dedicated military education, courtesy of Palpatine." He leaned forward slightly, as if imparting some confidential fact. "Most of which seemed simple common sense anyway. And all of which I'm therefore sure you'd agree combine to make it patently obvious that given the chance, a man in your position this far out in the Rim systems should try _very_ hard to bypass the minefield of trying to establish yourself in a wide and blood-hungry field by getting into this deal on the ground floor, and funding the _only_ mission that could possibly gain a complete set of military codes which will hand him access to a fully operational Death Star. Overnight, you become a major force to be reckoned with—practically invincible. Simple as that. Minimal outlay, negligible risks, prodigious gains."

"The _risk_ ," Kessler came back, "is a part of my fleet."

"Fleet? You have no fleet," Antilles kept his voice politely controlled though he held his own in the argument. "You have eleven Star Destroyers." He glanced to Moff Kaigi. "Nineteen, between you. Any Moff knows that you need twelve and an Interdictor just to blockade one planet effectively. You are," again, Antilles glanced to Moff Kaigi, and Mara realized that he was purposely pulling the older Moff into the debate—making it a joint decision. "with all due respect and through no fault of your own, small players. Right now, with just nineteen Destroyers, all you can possibly do is lose. It might be this year, in a campaign by the Rebels. It might be next year, in a coup from supposedly friendly Imperial forces crossing borders…or more likely it'll be a slow attrition, as you sustain ever-increasing hardware breakdowns and loss of trained personnel, even without the massive drain of completing a superstructure like the Death Star. I'm genuinely impressed that you've held out this long, with so little at your disposal. Because believe me, when the Moffs controlling larger sectors begin to suffer their own damages and run their own stores dry of replacement parts, cut off and with Rebel territory at your back, you'll start to look more and more like dinner to them. Easy pickings. Oh I appreciate that you've engineered yourself a little buffer, Moff Kessler, in the form of Moff Kaigi's territory, but you're still bordering Rebel territory spinward."

Five steps away, Moff Kaigi straightened a fraction, his eyes going quickly from Antilles to Kessler.

"The Rebels are concentrating their efforts Corewards," Kessler said flatly. "It's also the most logical action for them to take."

"And they've always been so very logical," Antilles dismissed with amusement. "That's why they fight against patently unbeatable odds in the first place. And why they risked an assassination attempt at Corsin Drydock that was, statistically, doomed to failure. You're a better tactician than to think you can predict their movements solely by logic. But if you want to work that way, let's play the numbers. Because with each passing month, the last Imperial presence in the Outer Rim is going to look more and more like an asset waiting to be stripped, to both Rebels and Imperials. In any realistic, long-term tactical scenario based on your present numbers, you lose. Except one. This one. In this one, you expand. Overnight. Exponentially. All you need are a full set of command codes. Then, _from a position of power_ , you negotiate with other factions. You lock down the deal with Moff Sekati for access to the Fondor Shipyards, coincidentally doubling your fleet in the process."

"You think she'd ever surrender so much," Kessler sneered.

"Rather than have it taken from her by force, yes," Antilles replied. "It's all in the timing. You turn up with a full set of active military command codes, and you can negotiate with Moff Sekati to bring the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ online. The _Executor_ is the key, here, not the Death Star. If you don't take it off her, if you instead offer her joint control, I think she'll deal. And with Sekati's fleet joining yours in a pincer movement, you could gain control of an entire slice from the Rim to the Colonies without a shot fired. The factions between your two sectors are small and widely spaced. That makes them easier to isolate. Those who won't deal, you don't go back to, you move on. You leave them. You build alliances with those who will…from the bridge of a Super Star Destroyer. When you have all of those who'll back you, you return to those who wouldn't, this time with the advantage of even larger numbers and resources. You take them apart by force, absorb them. You'll control the slice entirely within two years; the Core worlds in four. You then have the assets to bring the second Death Star online. To bring the Navy back under a single command; yours. Then you turn it outwards to the Rebels. All that's possible—it genuinely is. But you have to identify that one moment, that one opportunity…and you have to grasp it."

Kessler stared, drawn in despite himself. "And you're so very sure that this is it?" Beneath the sneer that still curled his upper lip was the slightest shade of hope. Of hunger.

Mara knew it…and she was damn sure Antilles did, because a smile ghosted across his face for barely a second before it was replaced by solemn certainty. "I wouldn't have reappeared right here and now if I didn't."

To one side Moff Kaigi straightened, his head nodding very slightly—but then he had never been the one they needed to convince, Mara knew. Kessler hesitated a few seconds longer, eyes narrowed as he stared at Antilles…but the lure was just too great. "Very well, since you seem so very eager to serve, the _Steadfast_ is yours for one more month. But I expect results."

Beside Antilles, Shira grinned. "You'll have them."

"Good." Moff Kessler didn't take his eyes off Antilles. "Because I expect _you_ to stand before my desk in one month's time, and either hand over a complete and intact set of command codes, or acknowledge that you failed dismally in your duties, and accept the consequences."

Antilles twitched. "…From you?"

For a second Mara thought that he'd throw away everything he'd gained them, on a whim. Simply because, in that moment, he felt like it. Again, his psyche profile came to mind; _confrontational, deliberately obstructive, lacks discipline._ Yet she remembered again the assassination she knew he'd fulfilled on Palpatine's command a year and a half ago; clean, flawless. How could both be true when…

And there it was, so simple. Summed up in Antilles' last two words.

He'd remained invaluable to Palpatine because the psyche profile was irrelevant, in relation to his Master. He didn't lack discipline, he simply chose who to acknowledge. When your mentor had been none other than the Emperor himself, anyone else was naturally something of a comedown. He had grown up within the intensely pressurized melting pot of the Imperial palace, interacting with his Master on far closer terms than either Mara or Shira. That was why he'd turned on Moff Kessler when he'd first been challenged, and that was why he'd reversed completely, when Mara had invoked Palpatine's name. She felt the same, after all; that no-one would measure up to Palpatine ever again.

But now he was alone. The parameters had gone from his life. He was a Sith, trained from childhood by one Master. Palpatine had created him…had he also purposely ensured that he was the only one able to control him?

Antilles was angry because he'd been abandoned, left alone and adrift with no boundaries. None. With the loss of Palpatine had come not only the loss of all direction, but all restrictions, all discipline. How much closer had he been to Palpatine, on a daily basis—how much more bereft must he feel, now? Was that it? Was it simply that he couldn't control himself because he'd never _had_ to. He didn't know how. That had been Palpatine's preserve. Probably for as far back as he could remember, it had been Palpatine's sole preserve.

In a single instant he'd been cast adrift in a galaxy that, before Palpatine's death, he'd never needed to participate in. He'd moved through it of course, just as Mara had, but only to fulfill his Master's directive. Always one step removed, so that it had remained nothing more than an abstract equation of problems which needed to be bent to their Master's will, a theoretical reality that had never truly touched them. Mara stared, feeling in that moment a wave of empathy crash through her. Because she'd held onto her beliefs throughout her grief, whilst he'd stumbled somehow, unwilling or unable to hold to the strength of purpose that their Master had always represented. More than that, he seemed to actively shun it.

Staring, understanding him on a far deeper level than ever before—his actions, his reactions, his anger, his reticence—there was one thing she couldn't grasp, in all of this:

Why the devastating loss of faith?

He glanced to her, a quick flash of uncertainty betraying the division of his attention. Had he sensed her revelation? She let the briefest smile touch her lips, comprehension affording a flicker of compassion, and it seemed only to unsettle him further.

It was Shira who stepped in on his behalf to speak to Moff Kessler. "We're confident that we can retrieve everything necessary as promised, Grand Moff Kessler."

"That wasn't the question."

"Commander Antilles' abilities and allegiance are beyond question, Sir."

" _Commander_ Antilles doesn't even consider himself a member of the Imperial military."

"Commander Antilles is a Hand, Sir, trained by and answerable to the Emperor himself, for many years. As such you can be confident that his future loyalties lie here. If you have any further queries about the mission, perhaps good working procedure would be to continue to direct all contacts through myself, as they have been previously. I'll be happy to address any questions, concerns or commands, and to relay those on to Commander Antilles."

Luke's eyes flicked to Shira in a heated scowl, and knowing why, Mara was galvanized into action. Pulling her comlink from her breast pocket she stepped quickly forward, wielding it as if she'd been speaking into it. No-one's attention had been on her, and since it served everyone here she was reasonably sure the pretense would pass unchallenged. "I'm sorry, there's a matter onboard the _Steadfast_ that requires our attention. If you'd excuse us, Moff Kessler." She turned quickly to snap a second sharp salute. "Moff Kaigi."

.

They were out of the hall in moments, striding down the long, gray corridors towards the docking bay and their waiting shuttle, both Luke and Shira silently stewing for very different reasons, Mara suspected. It wasn't until they were onboard and the hatch safely sealed that the storm broke and Shira turned, fuming.

"Why didn't you tell him the itinerary we gave you that accounted for the time you've been absent?"

Luke was unrepentant. "I've never validated my actions or whereabouts to a common Moff in my life, and I'm not going to start now."

"You need to do exactly that. These men are now the power-holders. They control the resources and the vessels we need to take any action—any! We need their co-operation. And to get that, we need to acknowledge them."

"I acknowledged them by wasting my time being there in the first place." He turned to stare out to space as the shuttle left the Star Destroyer's bay. "They want a Sith, and if you looked into their heads, you'll know that they expect a Sith to act a certain way. You practically said as much before we went in."

"Yes! Confident, maybe even aloof! There's a difference between that and being purposely disruptive."

Luke's head tilted as he turned back. "Oh, you haven't seen me being disruptive."

"I didn't exactly see you being diplomatic, either."

"I'm not here to perform on demand for Kessler, and I'm not gonna apologize for what I am. And he's sure as hell not gonna cow me just because he's on some petty, pointless little power trip to desperately try to cover his own nerves in front of a Sith. He thought that because he holds what you need, he could make some kind of point. Figured he should lay the ground rules early, when I arrived. And I don't know, maybe you've been letting him get away with that because you needed him, but he has zero that _I_ want, and even less about him that I respect. He's lucky I didn't turn his damn face inside-out."

"What the hell kind of attitude is that?!"

"You don't like my attitude, don't put me in a room with him again."

"I had no intention of doing so! I've set up a situation where Kessler would deal with you through me, to avoid exactly—"

"No! You may be able to play everyone else around here, but don't ever think you can play me. This whole event was all to ensure that you stayed in the loop—that you couldn't be excluded, once you'd brought me back and put this damn uniform on me. You took me in there because you needed to prove how unmanageable I'd be to them, didn't you? You knew I'd be confrontational—you _wanted_ me to be—just not to that degree. Well, I told you, your rules aren't mine."

He turned away, eyes on the void of space as he slowly wound himself into anger again. " _Direct any contact through you_. What, are you my pimp, now?"

"What did you want me to say, 'By all means feel free to try to get a word of sense out of the man who's been baiting you since he first set eyes on you'!"

" _I_ was baiting _him_?!"

"The bottom line is that we need him—the resources he can muster. That means we give him a little slack, to get what we want. For now."

"I _got_ you what you want."

"By backing him into a corner. Now he's going to go away and think about that, and what kind of mood do you think he's going to be in the next time we meet? How amenable?"

Luke let out a laugh.

"And we didn't get what I want," Shira said. "We got what _we_ want. What we need. What you're deliberately jeopardizing."

The jolt as the shuttle set down onboard the _Steadfast_ was enough of an impetus to make Luke stand, voice rising.

"A lot of people seem to be under the same misunderstanding right now, and I'm not entirely sure why. But I'll say this again anyway, just to clarify. Your problem—your basic problem here—is in assuming that I give a flying damn about who's standing on who's toes, necks or egos to get ahead and run the galaxy _this_ week. Because I don't. Not only do I not care, I don't care whether that fact upsets you…or anybody else, for that matter. You want to run around and chase things down just because they're not exactly the right political, cultural, theological or just plain self-serving hue for you this week, be my guest. Knock yourself out. Knock anybody else out that suits you. Just don't expect me to do that _for_ you. Because—and brace yourself, here's the crux of it—I don't care. I'll say it one more time, slowly…I _don't care_. I'm not your puppet, and I'm not fuel to your power trip, so look elsewhere. And if you're about to come back at me with some rousing, inspirational reason why I should, then save your breath. I've heard them all."

He turned and strode from the shuttle as the ramp was still dropping.

.

Shira turned to Mara, outraged…and maybe Mara should have toed the party line because Shira was right; they _did_ need Kessler… But Luke was right about everything else; they shouldn't have to kow-tow to any Moff for the privilege of trying to hold the Empire together. Aid should be automatic, comprehensive and unreserved.

And maybe, just maybe, she felt more than a twinge of respect that he'd stood up and said that out loud…which was why she shrugged, now. "Hey, even I would've waited until he'd calmed down before I waved that particular red flag at him."

.

.

.

.

Her feet took her to his door without conscious decision, and she hit the entry chime without hesitation, insight making her for the first time tolerant; he might rage a little bit, but essentially he would be preaching to the choir, and he'd know that. From the other side of the door she heard a long string of curses, then his hand slapping hard against the internal release plate.

"What?!"

She tilted her head, one eyebrow raised as she leaned against the jamb. "Well aren't you the little speechmaker today."

Luke turned about and stalked back onto his quarters. Pushing herself off, Mara followed as he ranted on.

"Tell me you're not really intending to hand the command codes over to that gobi-rat Kessler, if you get them."

"Not in a million years, you know that. But that doesn't mean we don't need him right now." She tested the waters with a brief smile. "I don't need years of tactical training and a high-end Carida diploma to work that one out."

Luke turned to glare and she shrugged, new understanding affording her the willingness to talk him down. "Look, the way I see it is this: unless we move within the next three to six months, someone else is going to find a way to gain those codes—to the _Executor_ , at the very least. Everything that you said in your little speech to Moff Kessler back there…take him out, and put us in. The three of us, we can accomplish all of that— _if_ we're willing to make some compromises in the short term, one of which is who we deal with to get what we need, in order to move forward."

Luke leaned his hips against the console behind him, arms folding. "He'll be apoplectic when he realizes we're not handing the codes over, you know that." He brightened, a look of wicked delight transforming his mood. "Can I be the one who tells him?"

She had to smile. "I'm sure Shira would be happy to pass on that dubious honor, as long as you're not in the room with him at the time. I doubt he'd let you walk out of there in one piece."

Luke glanced away, his anger drowned in a wave of contented anticipation. "Like he could stop me. I could walk off any Destroyer any time."

"Then I guess we should count ourselves lucky you're still here."

He glanced to her, thoughts pulled back from envisioning that future conversation with Kessler, and she saw quite clearly a flash of panic—as if he felt he'd been somehow caught out—and wondered at it.

He'd become so utterly _human_ to her. She would never have even considered that when he'd first come here, let alone warmed to it. Before today, he'd seemed a ticking time bomb that had needed constant monitoring to be held in check. Now—now, he seemed…

"What?" he prompted.

Mara realized she was stood with her head tilted in consideration, and looked quickly away. "Nothing. I was thinking about what you said to Kessler…well, more about what you didn't say. Or maybe about what I realized—what _I_ was thinking."

"You were thinking about what you were thinking about?"

"Reviewing my assessment," Mara murmured as she studied him, unwilling to be derailed.

"Down or up? Scratch that—I don't think it could go any further down, could it?"

On impulse, knowing, she reached out slightly to touch his face—

He flinched back, whole body tilting away.

"You don't like to be touched much, do you?" It seemed the best way, with him; to speak bluntly and without hesitation, if you wanted even a fraction of the truth.

"No." The momentary easement—what little there'd been—was gone from his voice.

"I don't understand."

"That's because I'm not explaining anything." He pushed to standing, looking to extricate himself with a terse rebuff. "I'm tired."

She nodded. "So am I…but I don't want to go just yet."

Antilles... _Luke_ , stood a few seconds in irritated silence… "How about now?"

She tilted her head, amused at the blatant rebuff. "I still don't seem to be leaving."

Time stood still for long moments whilst he stared, as if realizing for the first time. As if confounded by it. Then he looked quickly away.

"You don't want this. Seriously, I am just a galaxy of screwed up trouble." Then, because even now he had to try to make light of it to enforce safe distance, he added, "I can provide references."

She smiled. "I think I can handle a little trouble."

"And complications."

More excuses. "What complications?"

"Don't get me started. And the screwed up bit—don't forget the screwed up bit."

"I don't think you'd ever let me."

The comm on his desk pipped to signal an inopportune message, and he turned to activate the screen, whose words scrolled briefly, making him let out a rough grunt.

"Well, that's Shira on her way down here, for Round Two."

Mara smiled roguishly. "I think that's our cue to make a run for it."

.

.

.

"Okay, when you said you knew somewhere that Shira wouldn't find us, I thought you had someplace better in mind than this," Luke deadpanned. "My head is practically touching the roof."

They huddled together in a cramped low-roofed droid access hatch off one of the corridors to the rear of the TGV store. Luke sat on the floor with his back against a run of system lights whose pale blue glow was the only illumination in the small, low cubby hole. His knees were bent, his elbows resting on them…and sat on the floor before him facing away from him, slouched between his legs with her back leaning against his chest, her head resting on his collar bones, was Mara.

She shifted, readjusting her weight without looking at him—she hadn't risked that since she'd crawled forward to claim her spot, aware how uneasy he was with the slightest physical contact. "Can you sit up a bit?"

"Which part of, 'My head's touching the roof' did you not understand?" His whole body was tense, though the discomfort he felt wasn't physical, and she knew it.

"Stop grouching," she said lightly; may as well lay down some ground rules now.

He shuffled his position slightly and Mara brought her crooked arms up to rest on his knees as he spoke.

"You know this is a very big Star Destroyer. I can name twenty rooms that would be empty and unmonitored right now that have full ceiling height, chairs, everything." His anger was slowly transmuting to a kind of dry humor at the absurdity of it—of running away to hide like children.

"Yeah, but how likely is Shira to look _here_?" The bizarre change of scenery had settled him, as Mara had intended. Amused him, as left-field ideas generally seemed to. It also, coincidentally, provided an excuse to get in close contact for the first time. There was no avoidance possible here, no precedent for how to act, no safe distance. It had been a gamble, a sort of unspoken testing of the waters…with no real objections, so far.

"What happens if the maintenance droid needs access to this repair hatch?" Luke pushed.

"We tell him to go find his own bolt-hole, this one's taken. New occupancy, from now on."

It had been slow coming, this ease that had nothing and everything to do with her earlier revelation. In truth, the insight had only been possible because there had been a gradual turn-around in her thoughts over the last few weeks, as she'd got to know him. His dry, self-effacing humor, his carefully concealed principles, all so tightly locked down, as if to bare even a fraction of genuine emotion was against everything he knew.

"Come on," she smiled, tilting her head but unable to see his face—something else that she'd guessed would set him at ease. "didn't you used to hide under the table occasionally when you were a kid?"

His muscles tightened against her back, his pause a fraction too long. "Once. It didn't work."

She frowned without turning further, wanting to push for an explanation but knowing that none would be given—not yet. He didn't trust easily. Then again, neither did she. It was knowledge of their parallel upbringings, their near-unique vocations and callings, that gave her confidence now. She _understood_ ; had grown up in that same pressure-keg of constant demands for excellence and devotion and duty. Had woven them into her fundamental sense of self-worth, just as he had. More so for him, she supposed; he had been taught day in day out by Palpatine himself.

A smile twitched her lips at that last thought. "I was so jealous of you as a kid, you know."

He remained silent, but she felt him move against her back, and continued. "Those saber lessons at the palace…I might as well have been invisible as far as Palpatine was concerned. All his attention was always on you."

His ribcage jolted as he let out a brief, dry laugh. "No, it was on the potential of what I could be made to do, on command. What he could shape that into. I was just as invisible, I promise you."

She let a wry note enter her voice. "Well judging by tonight, you learned how to get yourself heard."

His arms, for want of anywhere else to rest, slid to settle over her own, wrists against her hands where they rested on his knees. She glanced to them unseen, but held silent as he shrugged, voice light.

"What, I thought I was pretty restrained."

"Oh absolutely," she said dryly. "The embodiment of the old axiom 'Talk quietly but carry a big stick'."

"Well I would've, but you've taken my big stick off me."

"You're not still complaining about your lightsaber?" She grinned. "I'll tell you what, if you can pull its storage spot from my head, you can have it back."

"Your shields are too good. Palpatine made sure of that so he could use you against Vader. And me, probably."

Mara shifted at that, discomfited. "Palpatine never distrusted you."

"He would have, eventually."

Silence held for a few seconds, but just as she'd taken a breath to ask the question, he spoke.

"Have you noticed that all conversations come back to him, eventually?"

She frowned. "I hadn't really thought about it. Surprised?"

"No. Maybe a little disturbed—that he's still in my head, every single day."

She glanced down. "I had the dream again last night—the one where he's shouting, and I have my back to him."

"How many times have you had it?"

"A dozen or so," she replied. "You?"

"More often." She felt his breathing break slightly, chest tightening against her back. "I thought we were trying to get away from the subject of Palpatine."

"Are we? Fine, I have a question."

His dry murmur of 'That's never good', was ignored as she pressed on.

"Why do you have a black heart?"

Silence again. Mara tried another prompt, keeping her voice light. "I saw the tattoo when you were unconscious, and wondered wh—"

"Doesn't matter." He glanced down, his chin moving against her hair as she tilted her head back, still unable to see his face.

"Tell me."

Another silence, which she waited out…

"It covers a scar. I was…thirteen, maybe. Maybe twelve. It was the very first time that I got an actual blow in, during a practice duel with Vader. Palpatine was there, watching as ever, and Vader pulled back slightly for one of his big, roundhouse blows that used to knock me off my feet back then. But I was getting quicker as I grew, so I caught my weight and landed in a crouch…and I stabbed out. My saber went in above the greave of his leg armor, just over his knee. Clean through. I was so shocked that I just stopped—we both did. And then Vader let out a howl and he lunged forward with a stab at the center of my chest. It would have gone straight through—skewered me—if Palpatine hadn't used the Force to yank me backwards in the same moment. But it left a burn to the center of my chest, and I didn't like it—didn't like being reminded that I'd stood there and let him do it…so I covered it up. I covered it up with a reminder of all he'd taught me to be."

She half-turned to search his eyes. "Is that true?"

He held her searching gaze with his own for a moment, face unreadable, though she knew that so much must be firing beneath the surface…then he looked away, letting out a brief laugh. "Well it sounds better than, 'I got so spiced up one night that I passed out in the back room of some cantina, and when I woke up the next day I was somewhere else entirely, and there it was'. I assume I asked for it, but…"

"…So which of those is true?"

He shrugged. "Either. Both. Take your pick."

"You always work so hard to push people away, don't you? The moment they get a little closer you give them a reason not to. You annoy them or break the moment or just nudge it aside."

"Oh, you're one to talk," he said without animosity.

"Takes one to know one," Mara countered as she turned to settle against him once more, looking down. "And I guess we both had the same tutor."

Luke was silent a while, the subtle tensing of his body against her back betraying his unease as he thought on that, leaving Mara to remember his assertion that for them, all conversations eventually led back to Palpatine.

"Okay, the truth…the truth is, you know when people sit out in the sun too long…they burn their skin. Well I've lived too close to the Dark for too long. I realized that a long time ago….so I let someone write it on my skin."

"That doesn't mean you have a black heart. Your heart's at the very core of you."

"You think he didn't get that deep?" He glanced aside, uncomfortable with the conversation, and Mara turned partway about to push at the edge of his shirt where the tattoo was just visible, intending touch the inked skin. But he slid his hand beneath hers.

She hesitated. "You always hide it away."

He wouldn't meet her gaze, voice quiet. "If I don't protect it then I might lose it to someone else."

"Or you might gain another, in return." In the moment, it felt so right to say.

She'd half-turned, her body pressing against his to hold the position, her head pulled back and up slightly to look him in the eye…and it seemed the most natural thing in the world, the only possible continuation of this particular moment, on both their parts:

He leaned down to kiss her. Her body reacted without conscious thought, stretching up and around as his hand slid into her hair to support her head when she moved against him, lips parting. No fraction of doubt or uncertainty or hesitation any more. This was where every single moment thus far had been heading, and it couldn't wait a second longer.

Her hands wrapped about his neck as his encircled her waist, and the kiss deepened to something of more meaning, more intent, both offered and asking. Their heads tilted in unison, bodies moving together, locking into place with a thrilling knowledge. It fit; they fit together, on every possible level. They'd skirted this moment for weeks, and for the life of her she couldn't imagine why. How it would ever have possibly been anything but this. This thrill that travelled through her and fired every single nerve with need. This perfec—

Within a second it erupted; she felt it overrun her and, this entwined, sensed it flood through him. A dark mass of foreboding which wrapped around and between them, a slick of dense Darkness, potent and absolute.

Gasping, she wrenched back as Luke did, his eyes widening to stare at her.

He straightened as she moved completely free and pulled her knees up to her body, each of them subconsciously ensuring distance even as she watched him lick his lips.

"What the hell was that?" Mara breathed.

A frown pulled his brow. "…I don't know."

"You don't _know_?! Isn't this what you do—what you trained for?" His abilities were by far the most advanced; she and Shira were trained adepts, but Luke was the Sith. Palpatine had never hidden that. "It was the Force, wasn't it?" Mara stared, a thought occurring. "Is this what you sense every time someone touches you—is this why you shy away from being touched?"

"What? No. No, this is…I've never…" He paused, as if trying to bring his thoughts into order. "It was prescience. A sort of…an echo, an omen on the wind. It can be the present or the future, or both, interlocked."

"Interlocked how?"

"Like a…an event, set in motion. Sometimes it's immutable, unchangeable. Sometimes prescience—forewarning—enables a Force user to change it."

"Was it us," Mara blurted, "did we set it in motion?"

"I don't know, alright?!" He scrabbled straighter, putting more space between them. "Force prescience isn't a book that you read, it isn't that linear or finite. It's too complex, too massive." He sighed roughly, struggling to explain. "When you sense things as an adept, you tap into what's around you in this second. You sense what you could practically reach out and touch—the next room, maybe; the next second or so. But visions—prescience—it's the whole galaxy, everywhere. It's everything that happened or will happen in every moment, all percolated down into a single point of awareness. You're asking me to pull a solitary thread from that and decipher it based on one brief impression."

"That's what you do, isn't it?"

"With the present, not with the future. When you try to extrapolate potential events then all that complexity unfolds outwards again to include everything, every possible future. And each second you move away from the present those possibilities expand exponentially."

"But you do it. You do it all the time."

"Because occasionally you get a flash; a significant event, a fixed locus, a connection, a sense of direction or necessity…but just as often it's vague or veiled or imprecise, hidden by too many variables which constantly change. It takes time to lock it down. It's like trying to track a single blade of grass in a whirlwind."

"It felt pretty damn clear to me."

His lips pressed to a hard line. "Well then you tell me."

"I don't…" She didn't want to say it—didn't want to admit what it had felt like; how much it had seemed locked to them. Was already trying to convince herself that it had been imagined… Had it been? Was it just coincidence, or a mix of their private nerves and fears? "Kiss me."

He pulled back slightly without realizing. "What?"

"Kiss me again, now. She was already leaning forwards…and after a second of hesitation, he did the same—

And they kissed. Warily, as if each expected a static shock from the other…

A second—another. Without realizing, Mara found herself leaning into the kiss. Found her fears forestalled by the warmth of him, felt her body react as he leaned in, felt the moment take them, nerves replaced by need.

They pulled gently back at some unspoken agreement. She looked into his eyes, seeing for the first time the smallest lines of their natural blue beginning to show through the dense brown dye he'd disguised them with. And though she'd sensed nothing this time, she read the subtle reactions that played out in his body; could see from the fine lines to the corners of those dark-cloaked eyes all that he was working to keep hidden.

"What did you sense?" Emotion held her voice to a whisper.

Those dark eyes turned down, unable to meet hers. "Nothing."

She stared for long seconds…at his face, at his eyes as they came back to her. Aware from his body language that he was trying to bury the premonition…

And she nodded slowly. Because she wanted this, too. Even knowing that it might burn or bring disaster, she wanted this. And to acknowledge the premonition was to end it, right now. All of it—any possible future together.

"Well, okay then."

.

.

.

.

Back in his quarters Luke paced the room into the night, mind racing, eyes glazed as he replayed the Force-fuelled incident through his thoughts again and again, searching for meaning. No, not that; for rationalization; some kind of justification that would let him ignore the premonition of foreboding that had reverberated within his senses when he and Mara had kissed, the exact antithesis of his feelings in that moment— _their_ feelings. How could something which had seemed so right also be so completely wrong?

When she'd turned, her body pressing against his, head pulled back and up slightly to look him in the eye…it had seemed so completely right to lean down and kiss her. Not the empty powerplay or premeditated manipulation that it was with Brie, but the spontaneous continuation of that particular moment, a natural reply to the unspoken anticipation that had been radiating from her since she'd knocked on the door of his quarters…

He cursed in silence, playing the body-blow of Force-prescience back in his thoughts again and again. Them; it was linked to them, to their being together. And had it been only that—was that what it was, with normal people? To meet someone, to talk, to fall in love…simple as that? To decide to be together, blind to the consequences? But once again, the Force had singled him out. Even when he tried his best to renounce it, to reject it entirely, still it encroached.

He felt the weight of it still settling in about him, melding itself inextricably to them, and focused on it momentarily, to judge its heft and significance…remembered Mara's eyes when she had looked to him as he'd said, that second time they kissed, that he'd sensed nothing. That it was gone, unconnected to them or their actions.

She'd known it was a lie.

Yet she'd let it pass; had chosen this as much as he had, knowing that there would be consequences. For himself that wasn't such a big thing. He had no particular sense of self-preservation—he'd never needed one; it never served his Master—and after Palpatine's death he'd felt no particular desire to instigate one. If this destroyed him, then so be it. But Mara…

He ran his fingers through black-dyed hair. Complications—always more complications. Was this what his Master had sought so stringently to avoid, in keeping Luke close on Coruscant. In keeping him always detached and isolated from any and all, by force. Some days, he longed for that simplicity…

And yet he couldn't help but harbor fractured longings; the need to feel _something_. Some connection, some bond, some…broken facsimile of human emotions, as he did with his sister Leia, and Han… it was Han who had opened the floodgates. But much as Luke struggled to close them, occasionally someone still slipped past, despite his best efforts.

He dragged his hands down his face, shaking his head. She was inside; in the space of a single kiss, and despite everything that had resulted, Mara was still inside…and even that wasn't true. She'd already been beneath his shields, the kiss had simply forced him to acknowledge that. How often had he resolutely refused to fathom why exactly he stayed here?

He'd gone into this thinking…what? It wasn't even an assumption that he could control it—he hadn't thought that far in advance. He'd simply presumed it would be some mild, momentary infatuation that would be fed in a matter of days and then dismissed, as every other encounter had been.

But this was different. Not because of the flare within the Force; that was the complication, not the phenomenon itself.

But the realization that Mara might actually _want_ to reciprocate had triggered a seismic shift which had somehow altered everything and yet left it exactly the same…so was it within himself, the change? He could feel his self-imposed isolation slipping away from him…and he didn't care. More; he _wanted_ this. Craved the rush that this feeling provided, as high and as potent as any spice.

As the thoughts played across his mind Luke's eyes, skipping the surface of the bed before him, came to rest on a small clear packet, and he let out a rough sigh, aware of another level of complication.

Brie had been to his quarters. Finding him absent, she'd left only a single packet of spice, thrown onto his bed as proof that she'd been. His eyes narrowed as he lifted the packet and dropped down to sit on the bed's edge, assessing with practiced familiarity; it wasn't enough. Shira had known that when she'd left it, the inference clear: he knew where to get the rest. Jaw flexing, he stared at it, the need building within his aching head and pounding chest. For now, it could reduce all these stacked problems to a distant whisper…at a cost.

He felt a pang of guilt that Mara didn't know about himself and Shira, but until now it hadn't been necessary. It wasn't as if it meant anything, above the most obvious manipulations on both sides; Shira wanted control of what she perceived of as a valuable asset, and Luke simply went along out of a mild curiosity as to how far Shira was willing to go to get what she wanted, and because it gained him what he needed easily—not Shira, but the substance she'd provided.

Once again, given free choice he'd made the wrong decision…and now was faced with waiting to see what the cost would be—

Because there was always a cost.

As far back as he could remember, growing up under Palpatine's harsh guidance, there had always been a consequence to any and every independent action he'd taken. A price to be paid. And the cost wasn't necessarily to himself—that had always been the way. All his life, those around him had suffered for his mistakes. It had made it so much easier, over the years, both to willingly isolate himself, and to abdicate all responsibility to Palpatine. Had become, if never comfortable, then at least recognized as a necessary arrangement.

But his Master was no longer here. Luke laughed briefly; the one outcome he had never once anticipated. Now he was alone…and he didn't exactly have a reliable record in great decisions, to date.

So what did he do?

He couldn't imagine there _was_ a way to break it off with Shira without the woman going psycho on him. That wasn't something that worried him all that much; let her rail against him, he didn't really care. There was nothing, absolutely nothing that she could do which would be even a shade on his old Master when Palpatine had turned on Luke, as he so often had to maintain his unassailable control. Not one thing.

His eyes rested again on the small packet held between his first and second fingers; well, maybe one thing. Mara thought he was free of the spice, thought he was clean. And he'd let her believe that because until now that hadn't mattered, either. More, he'd initially entered into it with the cold intention of using it to force another wedge between Shira and Mara; the revelation that Shira been trying to monopolize their resident Sith to her own personal agenda behind Mara's back, supplying him with spice to do so— _and_ lying to Mara about it. It would have been perfect—the ideal tool to bring this whole collaboration tumbling down, rendering a serious threat irreparable…had they been a threat to power, of course. To Palpatine's power.

But that in itself was now ridiculous. Dragged back onboard a Star Destroyer, dressed in a uniform and surrounded by the trappings of his old life, he'd dropped so easily back into that mindset, and viewed any and everything in terms of the possible threat to his old Master's reign. He'd acted on reflex, fed by years of ingrained teaching: any potential push for power, anywhere, was to be dismantled.

Only there was nothing to protect, any more; Palpatine wasn't here. Luke was alone.

 _Alone._

His thoughts drifted back to the warmth between their bodies as Mara had settled against him; to the rare sensation of feeling wire-taught muscles unravel and relax in synchronized response. Part of his brain rebelled even now, at the thought of physical contact…but he didn't tense, didn't feel that familiar tightening beneath his ribs—

Because it was Mara. Because in some way…that made it okay. Not just bearable, but...

In the comfortable, cramped silence he'd listened to her breathing, and felt his own breath fall into easy rhythm. His eyes half-closed at the memory, tiredness overtaking him. As he dozed a new thought surfaced which he studied in silent fascination, unsure how to handle it. What to call it.

No, there was nothing Shira could do to him. But for the first time, he found that it was Mara's disappointment if she found out the truth, that was weighing on his mind. He stilled, feeling that somehow by simply thinking it, he had set events in motion. A self-fulfilling prophesy that, having realized it, he would eventually tell Mara the truth. Even knowing the consequences, he would _still_ tell her.

Another thought occurred, on the tail of the first; that he could head all of this dread and waiting off right now, by simply telling her tonight. This was doomed anyway, why not save himself the pain and the worry and the wait, by ending it now? Because to tell her the truth about Shira and himself _would_ end it, he knew. Completely, utterly and unsalvageably. A familiar fascination came over him, as to just how badly that might go. A need to incite it, just to get it over with, as he had done so often in the past.

A brief laugh escaped him, as he turned the small pack of spice over in his fingers; Han had so often accused him of doing just that, on Coruscant—the same thing that his Master had damned as a weakness so many times. The same thing that had made him explode in Moff Kessler's face earlier today, when he could so easily have laughed and simply turned away, untouched by the whole ridiculous state of affairs.

Because just occasionally, if the mood took him, he simply couldn't stop himself from pushing, just to see how spectacularly it would blow up in his face…

Maybe his Master was right, after all.

It was the barest flicker at the edge of his awareness, the flutter of a moth's wing, the vibration of a bowstring stretched tight across his consciousness. That particular acuity which clawed down the bone inside his skull looking for purchase, dragging him into alignment against his will. Completely familiar yet somehow removed—a fraction displaced, a shade offset. A well-known tune in the wrong key.

Alone, uncertain, rocked by the night's highs and lows, he didn't have the strength or the caution to resist. Nudging his weight forward he dropped down onto the floor with a kind of resigned acceptance, crossing his legs as he braced himself, head lolling forwards as he let the vision take him…..

… _  
…..._

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ ۰

 _He shouldn't be here, wherever this was._

But he already knew that. It was old knowledge, deeply embedded, carrying within it an agonizing blaze of pain and bewilderment.

۰ _Never do this; never try, never even consider it!_ ۰

That same outraged fury asked the opposite of him now. Demanded and commanded.

 _The pressure change from low-roiling clouds in the vision made his temples throb dizzily. That same squat, dour building hunkered low within the barren landscape, its dark entrance foreboding and forbidding. Every single muscle in his body held tensely frozen, screaming to pull away, to scrabble backwards even as the vision pulled him on._

۰ _Shouldn't be here_ ۰

But here—this ugly, ominous, permacrete entrance—was exactly where he _should_ be, wasn't it? That roar of frustration demanded no less.  
Right now—he should be there, right now! Not seeing this in a vision but stood before this frost-frozen entrance, walking forwards.

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ ۰

Old lessons still screeched their fury inside his head, making him flinch:

۰ _Never do this; never try, never even consider it!_ ۰

"I don't understand!" He shouted it out loud. To himself, to the vision, to the nonexistent voice, to—

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ ۰

Here…here wasn't the place, it was the vision!

The vision itself was what fired such all-consuming guilt. He shouldn't be _here_ , inside this vision! It wasn't his, this knowledge—it wasn't his. It was a rigidly guarded secret he had come across when…

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ ۰

 _Hard-learned lessons slammed the thought down to quash it, but the cold, empty, musty corridors of the vision still seeped in about him. He wanted to turn, to ask if they could feel it; sense it. That silent sound which charged the air and scorched his senses…_

Wait, _they_? Why were others here, inside the vision? That hadn't been part of the original memory. He strained his senses, mind aching, pushing to clarify. It felt like the past and the present rolling forward. It felt like a knife-slice sliver of anomaly, a ghostly aberration which only the Force could see. But even that was broken and erratic, wildly unbalanced—

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ ۰

That feeling surged back through him. Old knowledge, ingrained and unshakeable, learned in childhood by hard knocks and brutal reprisals.

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ ۰

He just couldn't get past that one fact:

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ ۰  
 _۰_ _Shouldn't do this; shouldn't look here. Not here. Not like_ _this_ ۰

It wasn't the place…it was the vision, it was…the way it had been gained—

 _"…I shouldn't be here."_ A flash of memory flared brightly: His own voice speaking the words…from when? _  
"Break the bars."_ The reply—the demand inherent—was instant _. "_ _Find another way in. Subtlety, subterfuge. Find a way_ _."_

Close…he was close enough to touch the truth. It was there—it was right there!  
But older knowledge held him, the ingrained command always repeating, greater and deeper.

 _۰_ _Shouldn't do this, ever_ ۰

Everything…it was against _everything_ Luke had been taught:

 _۰_ _Shouldn't do this; shouldn't look here. Not here. Not like_ _this_ ۰

 _Everything he'd been taught…_  
Taught?

His concentration faltered, and the vision overran his confusion and dragged him forward—

 _He was in the room. Could see every detail at its edges, where smooth walls were bathed in blood red light… That sense of silent pleasure at its very existence;  
security, insurance. _

۰ _Shouldn't look here. Not here. Not like_ _this_ ۰ _  
_۰ _Not this mind, not like_ _this. Not ever_ ۰ _  
_…

It was a moment, a fragment of knowledge that he was dragging into the present and taking apart a piece at a time because…because he couldn't leave it in the past. It wouldn't stay there. It wouldn't die.

The voice rose to a shrieking demand, clawing wildly for release.

He felt like his consciousness was turning inside-out, trying to fathom this. He was going against everything he'd been taught simply to look at it, let alone unlock it. He yelled at the intangible voice as it howled back at him.  
Too distant, too narrow, too disjointed was the path which connected the two. It _wanted_ something of him—now! Right now!

In frustration, feeling reality rip and slip, he wrenched free from the vision and was left gasping, body trembling, mind in freefall.

Too far; it was too far. Like trying to hear a whisper in a hurricane.

 _No excuse; that was no excuse. There_ was _no excuse, ever._

… _  
…_

His body went lax and he collapsed onto his back on the floor, head throbbing and heart pounding at the exertion. Laying still, staring to the featureless gray tiles of the ceiling, his mind was transported back to his youth when he was made to practice lightsaber kata hour on hour by his Master, until his body failed him entirely and he would be reduced to laying, trembling, on the floor of the practice hall, feeling that no matter how far he pushed himself, that which he sought remained, always, just beyond reach.

.

.

.

.


	7. Chapter 7

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

.

.

"Any sign of him yet?"

Han asked the question as if it was part of an ongoing conversation, even though he'd just entered the room. But then maybe it was. It had become just…part of their lives, his and Leia's, to look for her brother. Part of the everyday background routine, to keep an eye out for any sign of him, any odd little frame of reference or scrap of Intel that looked out of place. Leia just automatically checked in on her system, which had long ago been set with the parameters of a search pattern, at the end of every day when she returned to her quarters. Han, having just entered and seen her sat at her desk, head tilted in concentration, knew instantly what she was doing.

She scowled, letting out her words in a low huff. "No, he's really gone to ground this time. I thought he might have turned up on Kirishi after he left Rishi, but no sign yet."

Han flopped down into the single chair in her quarters; ex-Imperial Star Destroyers weren't known for their crew comfort, but she'd lined the one semi-rigid recliner there with a set of pads from a beaten-up old T-90 pilot's seat, accomplishing comfort at the expense of that trademark Imperial minimalism.

He shifted, attempting to slide the ergonomic pads a little higher in the chair. "That freighter he won still on Rishi?"

"Not a single trembler moved, yet," she said, of the auto-transmitting devices they'd secreted about the many nooks and crannies across the dilapidated old freighter's scratched hull. "No-one's been near it. Does it seem odd to you, that he went to the trouble to win it, then just abandoned it there?"

"It's not abandoned, it's in deep storage," Han said, sliding his Rebel-issue tan jacket off and abandoning it half-hung across the chair back. "Maybe he's gonna sell it on when he gets a chance."

What Han didn't say, though he figured they'd both been thinking it, was that Luke might have used Rishi for the same reason that most spacers in that system did; as a jumping-off point into the massive Rishi Maze, the satellite galaxy whose only reliable hyperspace transit point was just outside of Rishi's gravitational influence. If the kid went into The Maze, they'd never track him. But as long as that old freighter remained on Rishi, Han was hanging onto the hope that even if that was what the kid intended, he hadn't done so yet.

"But why not just fly it out of there?" Leia asked, searching as ever to pin the facts down—something that was never easy with Luke. "He clearly intended to get off-planet that night, whether it was because he knew we'd tracked him there or he just figured his time was up, anyway."

They'd spent three days on Rishi, piecing together Luke's last hours there, and coming up blank at some point between his moving the freighter he'd won that night in a sabacc game to deep storage, and abandoning his clothes and IDs in the slummy room he'd been renting at the edge of the spaceport, paid up only until the end of the week. And somewhere in there, Leia had said that there'd been…something. Han didn't really get any of this Force stuff, though he'd lived so much of his life around it now that he had no trouble whatsoever accepting its existence. If Leia had said that there'd been some kind of disturbance—twice, in fact; once a brief, tightly controlled flare, then again a few hours later, less refined but more premeditated, a barely controlled blaze of dark aggression—then that was good enough for Han. Enough to make him worry what the hell the kid had done this time.

He remembered sitting on the edge of the unmade bed and glancing about the drab, dismal room Luke had been renting. His eyes had settled on a small palm knife embedded into the cracked varnish of the cheap bedside cabinet. Its surface had been covered with the same obsessive, finely-scratched sketches that Luke did wherever he stopped; the same faces, memories and blame, both. Tilting his head, Han had frowned at the calligraphy beneath the knife, trying to place it.

It had come back to him in a rush: sitting on the bare floor next to the kid in the Imperial palace on Coruscant, when Luke'd taken yet another beating from Palpatine. Han couldn't remember the reason; they all just bled into one, eventually. It didn't really matter anyway; what mattered was that Palpatine had created another opportunity to reinforce his position at the top of the tree.

No-one had batted an eyelid when the kid—all of fifteen—had stumbled back to his quarters. No-one had gone near him. There was a routine, Gorn had said. _A_ _routine_ —it happened that often.

He remembered sitting very quietly and carefully beside the kid, who was staring at a new painting, freshly hung on the wall.

" _So,"_ Han had said, carefully keeping his eyes forward on the new acquisition, knowing from his own harsh childhood that any attempt at direct help now would be rebuffed. _"What are we looking at?"_ _  
_ _"You like it?"_ The kid's voice had been a distant murmur. _"It's Capellan."_ _  
_ _"It's a big green squiggle,"_ _  
_ _"It's perfect. It's…expansive… Makes you feel you can breathe deeply. Like you can open your ribcage up and breathe."_ _  
_ _"Yeah? What does it say?"_ _  
_Kid's voice had been calm and quiet, tempered by awareness of the irony: _"It says, 'Seek Solitude'."_

 _._

Leia pulled him from his reverie as she raised her head to turn those big brown eyes on him, that familiar wrinkle setting a fine line between her smooth brows. "You need to get off-planet in a hurry, avoiding the Empire—who've just turned up in orbit with a Star Destroyer, no less—and you have an over-spec'd freighter clearly fitted out for shady business, just fall into your lap…what would _you_ do?"

Han rose as she spoke, wandering over to sift through the images on the assortment of datapads scattered across her desk. She reminded him of Luke, in that. The kid'd always had stacks of datapads strewn across his desk when he was trying to figure something out. He'd always worked visually, like Leia did. He sighed.

"I dunno, you never know with Luke. Sometimes he can pull somethin' pretty left-field. He has to show up eventually, right?"

Leia slumped forward, resting her chin on her fists. "Could you possibly tell _him_ that?"

"Maybe it's more left of center than we think," Han tried. "Maybe he hasn't even left Rishi—or maybe he circled back. Might help to go back and try to pick up his trail again from there."

"Maybe," Leia conceded, tucking her shoulder-length bob behind her ear. "It can't be now, though. That damn Star Destroyer's been sighted just over the border near the Tobali system. They think it might try to cross into the Rim systems again via the Perlemmian Trade Route. Intel have requested that since we're in the vicinity, the _Pride_ does a five-stop tour through the Tobali system over the next few weeks, to see if we can scare anything up."

Han rolled his eyes. "Seriously, that's the best use of a Star Destroyer they can come up with right now?"

"As opposed to detouring to the Rishi system to look for my brother," Leia smiled

"Hey, we're looking for the last remaini—" Han cut himself off, editing his own words only after he'd started speaking. It wasn't really done, to remind the last surviving Jedi that her brother was a Sith. In fact no-one beside himself and a handful of the very top brass knew that Luke Antilles was in actuality Luke Skywalker, Leia's brother. The biggest clue out there was that Leia herself was almost belligerently defensive of him—one more reason why, despite his hesitation to move things forward between them, Han couldn't imagine ever being with anyone else. But even he knew that some things needed to be handled with care, especially where Luke was concerned. Unlike everyone here, Han knew him well enough to know that the kid had an impressive history of apparent control for so long before _something_ would tip him over the edge quite spectacularly, if the mood was on him. Judging from the kid's reaction to finding out that Leia was his sister, Han knew that Luke valued the notion sufficiently that he wouldn't terrorize Leia with threats to release their shared lineage on a whim. But still, in the eyes of the Alliance brass Luke Antilles was a Sith, trained by a Sith, walking around free and holding a truth that had the potential to rock the Rebel Alliance at its very foundations. To them, that he hadn't already done so was a mystery of equal parts profound relief and deep confusion.

For himself, Han could figure the kid's reasoning. He'd even explained it to the Alliance Brass, though it had been to a sea of wary and bewildered faces—the kind of expression that Han figured he'd probably sported a lot himself, before he'd really known the kid. But close proximity—being dumped, sink or swim, right into the middle of the kid's life—had afforded him the kind of insight that few others had and, the way Han saw it, Luke's loyalty had always been to Palpatine, not his Empire. That was the fact; uo closeit was painfully obvious that Palpatine had spent so long grinding that unquestioning loyalty to _himself_ _personally_ into a seven year old kid—the kind of hardwired, habitual, reflex devotion that would tolerate any action and follow any order—that there really had been no room left for a wider sense of belonging. In fact, it would have been counter-productive. He'd made himself everything; _he himself_. In serving Palpatine, Luke had served Palpatine's Empire, and that was exactly as it should be, in the Old Man's eyes. Himself first; everything else second. A poor second, at that.

Leia glanced down, moving the conversation on. "We're close by—we can complete the tour in two standard weeks. It'll be a good breaking-in for the new crew."

Han pulled a lopsided face to indicate his opinion of that; they'd lost practically half their Bridge crew when they'd been transferred over to a newly-commissioned Destroyer two weeks ago, leaving them with five Alliance officers, none of whom—not surprisingly—had experience on a Star Destroyer's Bridge.

He and Leia had been reassigned to the _Kathol's Pride_ just three months ago in an attempt to disperse experienced personnel throughout the feet. For Han, it had been something of a hard homecoming to the ex-Imperial Star Destroyer that he had once travelled on whilst serving in the Imperial Navy, with Luke.

He'd briefly returned to the stolen Star Destroyer once before, newly renamed _Kathol's Pride_ and on its way to the Ariat shipyards in the outer Rim for refitting to Alliance needs, and thought that would be the last he'd see of his old Destroyer. But Alliance personnel were thinly stretched right now, a consequence of their own success in ousting the fractured Empire from vast swathes of the Rim systems. Crews were constantly reassigned in an attempt to intersperse experienced fighters such as Han and Leia amongst the novices, eager to stand up and make a difference. And Han, an ex-Imperial with experience of combat techniques onboard a Star Destroyer, was too good a chance for them not to reassign to the _Kathol's_ _Pride_. Admittedly most of that experience had been pursuing what, due to his constant inability to keep his own mouth shut, could only laughably be called a _career_ as an Imperial pilot, but it had been followed by an unexpected tenure as an aide to Luke, whose rank had afforded the kind of highest-level access that had put Han on the bridge of more than one Star Destroyer in the heat of pitch battle. At the time of course, he'd been looking at the battles from the exact opposite viewpoint, but that was part of his value now; that he could reasonably predict the military procedures that any Imperial Captain or Moff would follow. Imperials tended to stick to the book, and though he wasn't particularly inclined to do the same, Han at least had a good working knowledge of it.

For him, defection had been a hard decision. Not to leave the Empire—that had been on his mind for a long time—but to be separated from Luke, whom he'd promised to stay with, no matter what. That had been the deal, both to himself and to Luke; that he wouldn't leave. That he would be the first person to provide any sense of genuine, unconditional continuity in the kid's life, after Luke had been purposely hauled through an endless array of tutors and aides with not a single constant in his life aside from Palpatine—and Indo, of course. But then it had been his guardian, Indo, who had given a twelve year old kid already cracking under the strain, spice. To help him cope, Indo had claimed, head held high. To his day, Han had no idea how he hadn't punched the guy's lights out.

In the end Han hadn't so much left as been pushed away, both by Luke, in the only way that the kid could see to save Han's life, and by circumstances. And once out of that loop it was, as it turned out, all-hells difficult to track someone when they'd been trained their whole life in espionage and infiltration…. And they didn't want you near. _And_ they were a Sith. Kind of a hard act to lock down.

Which made this trawl through the Tobali system when they should be heading back to Rishi all that much more galling—particularly when he turned the datapad around to view the course. "You're kidding me. Half these planets aren't even inhabited!"

Leia flashed a teasing smile. "Afraid you'll get bored?"

"Hell, no. Three straight months of pushing Alliance borders out into the Colonies is enough for anyone. We need a break. Especially if we have a new crew."

"Well then?"

"When I say I deserve a break, I'm talking planet-side, somewhere near the equator, in a civilized society preferably with some seriously uncivilized nightlife," Han held. "Not some torpor-inducing tour of the ass-end of nowhere, in which I can personally guarantee you that absolutely nothing will happen."

"I'll hold you to that," Leia grinned.

Han threw the datapad down. "I'll bet you a month's pay."

She pulled a shocked face, full of mischief. "Wait—you get _paid_?"

"I get a steady stream of IOU's," Han griped. "They're all yours, if you want 'em."

"I'd hate anyone to say I was only interested in your IOU's."

"Yeah, I'd stick with the good looks and charm thing. It's more believable anyway."

She beamed, tilting her head back…and it would have been so easy to lean down and meet those mesmerizing lips…but that voice still whispered at the back of his mind; that savvy and self-possessed as she was, she was still Luke's sister. _Twin_ sister.

To say it had come as something of a shock when he'd found out that Leia was Luke's sister was a galactic-sized understatement. Still, it had paled into insignificance at the realization of her age when she'd told him, looking to compare herself with his knowledge of her brother's past. She'd always had this worldly air to her—which he supposed Luke had exuded too, but for entirely different reasons. And Luke's had always been countered by his slight physique and his youthful face. Leia—yeah, she was petite, but…if he'd thought about it at all when they'd first met, which he hadn't because no-one had suspected that they could ever be related, least of all Han, he'd probably assumed that she was maybe five years older than Luke—just four younger than himself. Finding out that she was seventeen had been a severe blow to his burgeoning intentions.

And Leia never pushed, wrapped up in her own doubts, leftovers of some outdated dogma that dictated that Jedi remained unattached, for fear of compromising that all-damned-important emotional detachment that exemplified them.

When that would ever change on either of their parts—if it even could, now—Han didn't know. Yet he knew that he couldn't imagine her not being a part of his life, so they'd fallen into a kind of limbo of once-stated intentions which smoldered unrepeated, bound by something deeper than friendship but less than passion, summed up in a single kiss almost a year ago.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Two days after crossing into Rebel-held territory, the _Steadfast_ established a synchronous orbit around Rhen Var. It was early evening, Fleet Time. For the planet below, it was just past midnight.

"We'll go down at first light," Shira said, eyes focused past the Bridge's viewscreen on the curve of the planet below.

Stood beside Mara on the Bridge—when he'd entered, he'd automatically closed to her side but kept his eyes on Rhen Var's distant presence—Luke finally turned. "Why not go now?"

"It's inhospitable at the best of times," Shira said smoothly, turning back to the run of angled viewports which lined the front of the Destroyer's Bridge. "The storehouse is set within a mountain range at seventy-six degrees southern latitude, close to the pole. The weather and the terrain make for a difficult landing, even with a small shuttle. Aside from severe gales, the sheer faces of the mountain ranges cause unstable crosswinds and updrafts most of the time, and the landing dish is practically non-existent. You need daylight to land safely."

He glanced to the surface, incongruous in the white shirt he wore, amongst the regimented dark olive bridge uniforms—aside from his one meeting with Moff Kessler, he still refused to wear the Ubiqtorate jacket they'd supplied. "They managed to land enough ships to build and fill the damn thing."

Shira half-turned and Mara braced, seeing the coming argument—which was mercifully interrupted when the Ops officer in the crew pit stood. "Sir, I'm picking up a large craft on long-range scans."

Beyer, the _Steadfast's_ captain, stepped forward. Appointed by Moff Kessler, he was nevertheless reasonable and forthright, unthreatened by the raft of Imperial Hands who now frequented his Bridge and directed his missions. So much so that he didn't react when Luke turned to voice the same order at the same moment that he did. "Identify it."

The Ops officer sat down, eyes on his console. "No transponder activity, sir. It's not broadcasting ID. Sensors are…we're getting the full scan back now; it's a Star Destroyer."

.

.

.

Onboard the _Kathol's_ _Pride_ , Han stared at Leia where she stood in the crew pit, leaning over as the new Ops officer worked his console with a little uncertainty.

"Yeah, it's a Star Destroyer, all right."

Han felt his chest tighten. "One of ours?" It was a slim chance, considering how few the rebellion owned and how widely stretched they were at the moment, but you never knew…

"We'll be within transmission range in a few seconds…"

Everyone stared, waiting…. Too long.

"Raise our shields," Hollis, the _Pride's_ new captain, gave the order without taking his eyes from the closing dot.

"Wait." Alliance ships were pretty relaxed compared to your average Imperial hierarchy, but Han didn't like to contradict a captain on his own bridge. Still, his usefulness here hinged on his being well rehearsed on a daily basis with standard Imperial military practice. "Imperial Star Destroyers don't raise shields when facing each other. We're all supposed to be on the same side, remember?"

"No ID being transmitted," Lyto said, scowling at his tactical board. "It's running dark."

"In its own territory?" The _Pride's_ captain crouched to the edge of the crew pit, unused to the multi-level arrangement that cut command crew off from operatives below.

"It's not in its own territory," Han reminded. "It's over the border into ours."

"Barely," Hollis said, squinting at the distant speck.

And he had a point; borders were at best vague and flexible this far out, changing constantly according to who had the most ships in the area, which fleet craft had been moved elsewhere to police other disputes, how close support craft were, which commanders were in play, who was in a bad mood, a game mood, or just plain willing to stick their neck out this week.

"Well we know it's not ours," Leia said, eyes on the scan as Han turned to study the small over-bright speck in distance, looking like it had been making for a geostationary orbit over the inhospitable and uninhabited Rhen Var.

"Is it our mystery Destroyer?" he prompted. They were here looking for some rogue Imperial Star Destroyer which had been sighted multiple times in the Tobali System over the last few months—surely they hadn't stumbled on it just two days into their tour?

.

.

.

. "…broadcasting no ID, sir," the Ops officer said tightly, eyes on Captain Beyer.

Stood close to the front of the bridge as the situation coiled tighter, Mara turned as Luke spoke quickly beside her, his adrenaline clearly rising.

"Are we?"

Mara shook her head, sure of this if nothing else. "We've been running dark since we passed into Moff Garrett's territory."

"What's your relationship with him," Luke asked from the edge of her vision, as he turned to Shira. "Friendly?"

"He'll let us pass unchallenged," Shira nodded from two steps away, attention out on deep space. "But he'll want to know which fleet flag we're flying under, and why we're here."

Luke's narrowed eyes were already back on the unknown Destroyer. "Do his ships generally run dark in their own territory?"

"It could be a reaction to our presence."

"But why run dark?" Luke pushed. "Shields up since we're an unknown, maybe, but what does he gain by running dark, other than to disguise which of his ships it is? Why bother to do that at all if they're not generally hostile?"

"We're over the border," Mara reasoned. "Inside of what's generally considered Rebel-held territory. We're running dark, too."

"Is Moff Garrett known for pushing the border?"

"No. But he could have ordered someone to shadow us," Mara reasoned. Luke's obvious unease was making her twitchy too—because she knew exactly what he was thinking.

She turned to the crew pit. "Initiate a wide long-range sweep for large vessels. Pull up the last few days' logs and extrapolate all known Destroyer courses in the area; how likely is this to be one of Moff Garrett's Star Destroyers?"

They shouldn't be this tense, of course. Seeing another Star Destroyer should be nothing more than routine, a relief even, since they were stealing through the edge of enemy territory…but since the fragmentation of the Empire, any other Star Destroyer was as likely to fire on them as it was to greet them. Worse, it could possibly be one of the Destroyers taken by the Rebels, in which case, alone in Rebel-held territory and with no back-up, they were in _serious_ trouble.

Everyone stared at Ops, waiting…slowly, he shook his head. "Based on Moff Garrett's fleet movements of the last few days, it could possibly be the _Spur_."

"Could be or is," Luke pushed. Both ships were drifting closer on opposing parallel courses, so that the unknown Star Destroyer's sleek lines were visible to the naked eye now, delineated by the multitude of running and operational lights scattered across its surface. Eyes narrowing as he stared, Luke barely turned away to the crew pit. "Helm, maintain this course but don't correct for rotational drift. Angle us for a loose intercept. Don't make it look too obvious."

"Wait!" Beside Mara, Shira spoke out tensely. "We're outside of range. We should pull back."

"And then what?" Luke asked, turning. "You want to get to the storehouse—it's right there."

"We can come back."

"They may stay days. If they've got an ounce of command sense, they're gonna be wondering what we're doing here right now, anyway. If it is one of Garrett's Star Destroyers he can have three more here by morning, and troops on the surface."

"The storehouse isn't in any official maps or logs," Mara assured.

"He has scanners," Luke said evenly. "If I had an unidentified Star Destroyer hanging around an uninhabited planet in my back yard, I'd be taking a very close look at why."

.

.

.

Onboard the _Pride_ , Captain Hollis still crouched next to the crew pit, making Han's lip twitch; you didn't see _that_ on any Imperial Star Destroyer. "Is it one of Garrett's?"

"Could be," Lyto allowed. "What's it doing over the border?"

Captain Hollis pulled a brief face as he turned to Ops. "Taff, try pulling up his fleet's standard routes and overlay them."

"Uhhh…" Taff, another newcomer to a Star Destroyer's Bridge, shook his head as he wrestled with unfamiliar instruments. "I don't think they…it could be the _Spur_ , maybe, given the distances."

"Why would Garrett suddenly put a Star Destroyer in our territory," Leia asked slowly.

"We're here because there've already been sightings," Han prompted.

"Not of Garrett's Star Destroyers," Leia murmured, eyes on the closing ship. "We started routinely verifying their locations after the first few sightings of the rogue."

.

.

.

"We should pull back," Shira reiterated.

"Hold course," Luke stated with flat conviction.

Mara glanced back, aware that he'd changed from his usual reticent, uninvolved self as the stakes had risen. Even the men in the crew pit seemed to react to it, as the Comms officer moved immediately to comply with Luke's next command.

"Comms, open a channel, wide-band." He hesitated a moment, until a pip signaled the comline was open, then spoke up with unexpected composure, voice loud and authoritative, a perfect match for every Star Destroyer Captain Mara had ever heard. "Unidentified ship, this is the ISD _Steadfast_. You're in violation of four military codes in failing to transmit a recognized transponder ID. Respond immediately."

.

.

.

"Frik," Han cursed quietly beneath his breath, hearing the bombastic voice of some young gun Captain crackle over the comm, probably over-eager for a little action. With any luck, he'd be about as green as half the _Pride's_ nervous Bridge crew were.

The _Steadfast_ didn't ring any bells as one of Garrett's fleet either, who apparently seemed happy to maintain rather than try to force or overrun existing borders. He glanced quickly to Leia, but it was Captain Hollis who surprised them by nodding for the comm to be opened, and speaking with a surprisingly steady voice.

"ISD _Steadfast_ , this is the ISD _Adjudicator_. We're running dark due to our position in enemy territory, and only broadcasting verbally on request. We didn't expect to see another Imperial ship out this far. You're a long way from your fleet's jurisdiction."

.

.

.

Luke signaled to Comms to cut the link then turned immediately to the Ops officer. "Get the Class-type of the _Adjudicator_ —and put out an all-point location request for it on fleet-wide channels, see if anyone responds."

The Ops officer frowned, looking to his captain for support. "Sir, we don't even know which fleet the _Adjudicator_ is attached to. It could be anywhere. There are no inter-fleet itineraries released for general issue any more."

Luke's head tilted. "You have one minute, and you're wasting it telling me why you can't do it, instead of trying. If you don't have the capacity to carry out your duties then you'll be replaced at change of shift with someone who has the initiative to put his mind to actually trying, rather than waste it on whining excuses."

The man stared for a second…then his head went down in rapt concentration. Even Mara blinked, watching the change come about as Luke moved from spectator to participant to the commander he'd been trained to be—all three of them had. She stepped forward, putting authority into her own voice.

"Captain, ask the _Adjudicator_ its mission."

"And try to get the captain's name," Luke added. "Casually."

Captain Beyer hesitated for a second as they closed on the unknown Star Destroyer, near enough now that they could make out individual decks in the play of lights across its surface. Then he nodded to Comms and found his words, fighting to keep his voice routine. "ISD _Adjudicator_ , please state your mission parameters. We…believe we may be overlapping, here, Captain…?"

"ISD _Steadfast_ , we're really just passing through. We came out of lightspeed for a course correction."

"To where," Mara murmured disbelievingly, eyes on Luke. " _From_ where?"

From the crew pit, the tactical officer rose to his feet to speak quietly—not to his captain, Mara noted, but to Luke. "Sir, I've pulled a class-type on the _Adjudicator_. It's similar, but not analogous with the ship we're in contact with. Best guess, based on closer scans and class-type recognition, is that it's the _Conquest_ , the _Ultima_ or the _Relentless_."

Mara's limited training in Force awareness meant that her perception of general emotions was average, at best—but she sensed Luke's reaction to that last name, strong enough to make her flinch. She turned quickly, to see his jaw clench.

" _Relentless_. They're pointing the _Relentless'_ guns at me." He said it quietly, but she could sense the sardonic indignation in his voice. The dry insult. He lifted his hand, clicking his fingers towards the Comm console. The officer there rushed to disconnect the comm—then paused; it had already been done, without being touched.

Luke glanced to Mara, then to Captain Beyer. "It's the _Relentless_."

Which made sense, given their position beyond their own borders; of the three, the _Relentless_ was the only Imperial Star Destroyer in Rebel hands—more, it was now that Mara remembered that it had previously been the one on which Luke himself had regularly traveled. They were pointing his own Star Destroyer at him…and he clearly didn't appreciate the irony.

"All stop," Captain Beyer said, eyes on the forward viewport.

"Belay that," Luke said, stepping forward.

The Helm officer glanced briefly to Mara and then to Captain Beyer…but he moved to comply with Luke's directive.

Moving to a more central position on the command walkway Luke began a stream of commands, completely in the moment, ever more invested. Despite his tone, his authority here was in truth inferred, at best. Yet neither Mara or Shira—or even Captain Beyer—moved to intervene as Luke passed out orders with practiced certainty.

"Helm, cut all engines and alter course on maneuvering thrusters only. Aim us for a slow drift which will bring us ninety degrees above starboard of its upper hull, at point-one sublight, with minimal course corrections."

"Sir?"

"Use existing inertia to take us side-on slightly above it. The more unplanned you can make the drift appear, the better. Tactical, make targeting calculations for repeat volleys to major strategic objectives along the upper hull, presuming an eighty to one hundred degree variant and a speed of point one sublight, but don't bring any guns online. No explicit scans; set targets passively from existing Destroyer schematics. Account for drift as it occurs."

.

.

.

Watching from the _Pride's_ bridge Han saw the massive bulk of the _Steadfast_ drift slowly forward, making no move to come to a standstill though it was only about fifteen ships' lengths from them now, skewing slightly under its own inertia into a slow clockwise roll. _Clockwise roll…._

"Wait a minute," he murmured slowly, turning Leia's head as he lifted his hand to track its roll.

"What?"

"They're moving into an offensive position."

Kori, on Helm, glanced out, then doubtfully back to her readouts. "They're drifting on minimal power."

Han stared with the eyes of an ex-Imperial combat pilot who'd seen his fair share of battles, albeit from the other side of the fence. "Yeah, they're _drifting_ to a tactical position that'll minimize their own profile and maximize their firepower across our broadest profile. And with our bridge facing their guns."

Star Destroyers were designed to fight edge on, with sixty percent of their guns to their narrow inset edges, the rest scattered across their elongated, arrow-angled hulls in positions carefully calculated to provide optimum fire percentages on multiple angles both forwards and along their sides…sides which were now coincidentally _drifting_ into perfect target alignment on the _Pride_ , to Han's practiced eyes.

"…Sir," Tactical said, "their guns aren't charged."

"Check their power signature."

Tactical, a Byssic whose narrow, all-black eyes beneath a ridged forehead gave him the appearance of a permanent frown, ran three-fingered hands over his console. "Internal power signature's rising. None of it's going to their guns, though."

"Nah, they wouldn't want us to get suspicious, would they," Han growled, as he turned to Leia. "We're busted. They're just seeing how close they can get."

.

.

.

"Sound the Call to Arms," Luke said as the Rebel Destroyer appeared to slowly corkscrew, due to their own leisurely inertia-roll.

"Do you want the Bridge targeted, Sir?"

"…Minimal; leave it intact. Let's see just exactly who thinks they can brazen this out, shall we. Target their navigational and defensive shields, and generators. Prepare to target propulsion systems as they come within range, then split groupings by tens, with ninety percent offensive on propulsion."

Tactical nodded without lifting his eyes, attention on his console. "Charge the guns, Sir?"

Mara didn't miss how ready the crew was to give Luke some respect, when he acted like he deserved it.

"No. Don't charge guns or batteries, yet. Get ready to raise shields."

"Wait!" It was Shira, striding in from where she'd stood close to the viewport.

"You can't back down from this, Shira," Luke bit out, anticipating her words. "We're too close. We're committed."

"I told you not to take us any closer. We can still pass overhead."

"And accomplish what?" Luke challenged. "Go where? You want access to the planet's surface? I can buy you that. I can turn their heads elsewhere. If you take a stab at the _Relentless_ now—if you do some damage—it'll be viewed as just that; a cross-border skirmish. A sortie on the Empire's part to try to bring down the local Rebel Destroyer. You just sail on by without action and they're gonna wonder what you were doing here in the first place, if not looking for them. Either you open fire, or you give up Rhen Var. Permanently."

Shira glared, backed into a corner. This had been their intent for so long—to get the command codes from Rhen Var. Without them, she and Mara remained just another small outfit struggling for any kind of recognition. It could be a year of research to find another likely location for the stored command codes. There might not even _be_ another complete set.

"You _have to_ act," Luke said quietly but forcibly. "Hide our real intention behind the attack. Do this, and even if we don't get to Rhen Var, it remains safe."

"You said there wouldn't be a Rebel military presence out here," Shira grated.

"No, I said if there was, I could deal with it," Luke corrected. "I can."

Shira's dark lips curled in anger. But she had the presence of mind not to let it interfere with the right decision, now.

"Then deal with it."

.

.

.

Leia stared out in silence as the immense bulk of the ponderously incoming Star Destroyer eclipsed the distant light of Rhen Var's sun. A sea of anxious faces lifted to watch the colossal Star Destroyer glide silently by overhead…

It was the vaguest tingle to the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, a change of timbre in the very air about her…

.

.

.

Luke's mouth twitched in the briefest of grins as he turned back to Tactical. "Transfer power to the guns. Two second pulses grouped to pinpoint targets for shield penetration. Bring the last ten batteries of guns around in preparation for a staggered spread across the engines, aiming for shield damage. Bring fixed warheads online and target propulsion, full spread… Open fire, full starboard battery."

.

.

"Shields!" Leia yelled the word as she braced—

A second later the first volley thundered into them, rocking the _Pride_ on its axis and triggering multiple alarms across the crew pit's consoles as officers cursed and lunged to grab for any handhold, eyes wide.

"They're fine-point targeting for penetration—multiple hits to the main portside cooling tower!"

"Power grid took a heavy blow! We're losing operational transfer to—"

"Top three decks of the Command Tower are reporting heavy damage. Pinpoint breaches to outer hull in—"

A second volley made the floor beneath their feet lurch as lights flickered, two direct hits on the Bridge viewscreen dissipated by the raised shields.

"Damage to the main power relays! Sir, we have—"

Captain Hollis had dragged himself up. "Tactical, return fire, all batteries! Helm, turn us into optimum defensive angle and put power to impulse engines. Get us out of range!"

"Sir, we have incoming warhea—"

The _Pride_ bucked pitifully as a cacophony of new alarms squealed from the helm consoles.

"Sir, we've lost fine-array transmitters to the portside engines! We're one third power down. Maneuverability compromised to—"

"Turn us on impulse!"

Leia reached the Tactical console about the same time as Han did.

"Returning fire!" Han barked.

"We only have seventy percent batteries across that axis," Leia said flatly, fingers flying across the console. "Lyto—Lyto, how do we reroute power to remaining batteries?"

The Byssic was pushing up from where his small chair had been flung backwards by the last blast, rushing forward. "Pull up the grid array—portside. There! Reroute. Ops, I need power siphoning from routine tasks!"

"It's gone into shields," Taff said through gritted teeth.

"They're gonna target another volley on propulsion," Han warned.

"Helm, back us the hell up," Hollis said again. "Get us out of here!"

.

.

Another surge of multiple bursts from the _Steadfast's_ starboard guns traced brightly across the damaged _Relentless,_ and Luke's initial satisfaction began to cramp at the knowledge that this was the _Relentless_. He was firing on his own ship—or what had been, once.

It was spiraling down and away, part under impulse, part as a reaction to the unrelenting barrage, trying desperately to pull clear.

Since they had the wherewithal to try that, Luke made the next obvious call—one that the crew had likely been waiting for with baited breath. "Tactical, reroute twenty percent power to starboard shields. Tile over any vulnerable zones and prepare to shift main buffers to aft as we pass striking distance. Power status?"

At last the _Relentless_ made her first reprisal in a widespread volley whose impact was limited by the _Steadfast's_ oblique angle. Their shields flared, and two strikes visibly penetrated to impact on the _Steadfast's_ hull without further apparent damage, their energy spent in punching through.

The captain should have defined targets, not fired blindly on auto-targeting, Luke reflected coolly. It would have been worth the four-second delay to focus on specific targets. He'd likely correct that for the next barrage—unless they could keep him on the back foot. "Damage?"

"Three pinpoint perforations of shields, Sir. Tiling to compensate."

"Any penetration on their engine shields from our own batteries?"

"Nine small flaws showing, sir."

"Helm, start to bring us around as we pass her tail; turn us on all three axes' to keep us with her. Tactical, can we get one more burst on the engines? Target a second wave of warheads to take advantage of any shield flaws before they tile and cover them."

"They're putting all power aft, sir. I'll try."

.

.

"Tile shields aft!" Han yelled, shoulder to shoulder with the Tactical officer in the crew pit, as Leia stepped back, holding at the edge of the consoles to keep herself upright as she staggered to Ops.

"Helm," Captain Hollis yelled, "key for the first pre-calculated lightspeed trajectory along this path."

It wasn't as crazy as it sounded. They were close to a planet so there'd be a good chance of pre-existing calculations in the 'nav systems, which would save the time of consulting star maps to select a planet along their present course and keying in confirmation before the navigation systems even began their calculations.

"Got one!" Kori, on helm, yelled. Her voice quietened a fraction in confusion. "Got sixteen…"

"Pick one!" Hollis shouted.

In the same moment a second set of warheads must have impacted, rocking the _Pride_ sufficiently that Leia knew they'd sustained some real damage.

"Do we have still have lightspeed online?" Hollis asked frantically.

Desperate, Leia reached out with the Force, looking to get some sense of the enemy who had—

She pulled a gasped breath in as her eyes opened wide. "Luke!"

.

.

Luke was two steps ahead of Mara to the very front of the _Steadfast's_ command walkway when she saw him falter. Even then it was barely noticeable; a brief, forced breath out as his hands came partway up in shock. He retreated two fast steps, blinking rapidly…then it was all hidden away as he straightened again, his stillness the only indicator that it had happened at all.

In the crew pit, Tactical spoke out, eyes to Luke's back. "Sir, I can get one further—"

"Wait—stand down."

"…Sir?"

Luke turned about. He looked briefly to Mara, holding her gaze a second too long, then away, licking his lips. "Helm, bring us back by nine degrees and pull us nose-on to the _Relentless_ ; maintain our defensive angle. Tactical, start tiling our shields to account for the shift of battery placements as they pass clear. What's the status of their engines?"

"Their engines are at fifty-five percent, sir. We can make one more strike before they—"

"Stand down all batteries and missiles. Transfer power to shields."

Mara stared…but it was Shira who spoke from the rear of the Bridge. "You're letting them go?!"

Luke stared…and Mara could practically see his mind racing to come up with an answer. "We don't have the time or the resources to deal with a captured Star Destroyer right now. And if we render it dead-in-space, it'll sit here and watch us go down to the planet's surface. Do you want that?"

"We have the chance to reclaim a Star Destroyer!"

"And do what with it? Just sit here in Rebel territory whilst we put enough troops onboard to clean it out and take over? Be forced to halve the _Steadfast's_ crew, so that we can transfer them over to the _Relentless_ , just to fly it back and hand it over to Moff Kessler? Do you know how long it would take to clean out a Star Destroyer to the point that you know it's safe? We've made our point. We've bloodied their nose. Now we need them gone."

"They'll come back."

"They have no other vessels within a day's travel. We can get down to the surface, retrieve what you want, and long gone by then. Right now this looks like a standard hit-and-fade attack. Based on that, they have no reason to come back here and obviously we wouldn't be stupid enough to wait for them. As far as they're concerned, this was a border skirmish that they managed to limp away from."

Shira stared, her own mind calculating the possibilities as Mara did the same. A Star Destroyer would be a useful thing to have, but Luke's inferred message, hidden with care on the Bridge of one of Grand Moff Kessler's Star Destroyers, was right; if they took it now, the timing meant that they'd have no choice but to hand it over to Moff Kessler, slowing down or even entirely compromising their own mission to Rhen Var in the process.

Shira turned away and Captain Beyer moved uneasily, eyes flicking to the wounded quarry beyond the viewport as Luke aimed a few words at his wider audience. "We have a mission whose payoff is far greater than one Star Destroyer. We keep to that. This was a minor inconvenience that we've successfully dealt with, not the main event."

As he spoke, a flicker of pseudo-motion outside of the viewport signaled that the Rebel Destroyer had limped into lightspeed, rendering the discussion moot.

It seemed to take Luke a while to pull back into himself, as he stared out at the spot where the _Relentless_ had been just moments before. Given his earlier ferocity as he'd launched the attack and his quiet, cold capability as he'd pressed it, Mara had expected some explosion of umbrage at its escape, albeit the logical decision…

In the event he tilted his head, lips quirked into a brief, private smile…then turned and walked down the central command walkway, head down in thought, hands clasped behind his back, oddly at peace. To either side of the walkway, those in the crew pits risked lifting their heads to covertly glance up at his passing, saying nothing.

"Captain," Luke paused to nod once to Beyer, who still stood to the rear of the central walkway. "My apologies for looking to get my hands dirty, there. I relinquish your Bridge to you, sir. You have a fine crew." He turned to Shira, voice lower as he leaned in, grinning. "And you, ma'am, can have your Star Destroyer back. Apparently I've dented three hull plates, so she's not entirely without a scratch. I hope you can live with that."

He strode off the bridge, and Mara had to smile at the buoyancy in his step. The confidence. Despite his refusal to don his Ubiqtorate jacket save for that brief, heated meeting with Kessler, she wondered whether she'd just seen a glimpse of the officer he'd been when he'd worn it like a second skin.

.

.

.


	8. Chapter 8

.

.

 **CHAPTER EIGHT**

.

.

.

It had been building at some indefinable point within Luke all the way down to the surface, as Shira had piloted the shuttle through storm-heavy clouds; that itch which had turned into a grating graze within his thoughts, dragging them to…what?

They'd come alone, in the shuttle; himself, Mara and Shira. The _Steadfast_ had been here before, and plundered all that it could from the Rv-9 storehouse before re-sealing it and re-initializing its shields. Only the doors which had to be opened by a Sith remained untouched, and Shira wanted to share the precious military command codes stored behind them with no-one. Luke might have argued the point, but he wanted to land and be gone; his sister's presence onboard the stolen Rebel Star Destroyer had been unexpected, and the resultant necessity to backpedal—to compromise—had left him uneasy, studying just exactly where his loyalties lay. Or maybe it was the scratching sensation inside his thoughts, that familiar tune played out of key, some insight trying to coalesce…

By the time they landed, he knew. He stood at the base of the shuttle ramp and stared at the dark sky, whose low, roiling clouds hung heavy, whipped across the evening sky by high winds.

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

He shouldn't be here _._

The squat, permacrete storehouse entrance was dug into a barren stretch of wind-whipped brush whose bare, frost-encrusted twigs hunkered between the bulk of bare boulders to survive.

Only the entrance was visible, a man-made scar amongst the unforgiving natural landscape, its cast permacrete covered with dark lichens which lined deep cracks eroded by ice damage. The unrelenting solidity of it was unmistakably menacing… Because it was a thousand cold and clammy nightmares made real. A thousand jolts awake in the still silence of lonely nights. A thousand hissed commands and roared demands which had left his heart pounding and hands trembling. Old knowledge fired, ingrained and unshakeable, learned in childhood through hard knocks and brutal reprisals:

۰ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

Every single muscle in Luke's body, every nerve, every fiber, every cell, screamed to pull away from the object of the visions that had haunted him in the dead of night and the bright light of day.

Mara turned, frowning, as Shira reached the substantial plasteel doors and slid a powerpack into the coded entry grid.

"Luke?"

He blinked, forcing breath into tight lungs…and walked forward on autopilot. Because in the visions, as much as they had screamed that old knowledge _Shouldn't be here_ … he'd known, absolutely, that he had to enter.

Cold, musty corridors flickered into being as emergency lighting gave them form, and Luke found it hard to breathe as they walked deeper, aware of the mass of earth above the bunker's echoing corridors. The reverberation of their footsteps was dull in the dank stillness, silenced entirely as they occasionally walked through trapped water, ankle deep. Insects scurried back at their passing, leaving Luke to wonder what they ate, this far underground; each other, most likely. A subterranean microcosm which fed forever upon itself in the cloying darkness.

Dust-encrusted webs brushed against his face and his fingers as he pushed them aside, so dense that he was unable to avoid them, making him flinch as they caught in his eyelashes and onto his lips. Was he breathing them in? Taking the crumbling decay inside himself, with every stifled breath?

Deeper… he remembered the vision, of blood-red rooms deep below ground. The old Corellian legends of the Nine Hells replayed in his thoughts. It was said that the disembodied souls of the Sith were condemned to wander in chaos there for all eternity, bereft of power and free will yet still self-aware, with inevitable madness the only release…

He stared, aware that he had stopped. That Mara and Shira were staring expectantly at him.

"…you listening?" Shira asked, scowling as she stepped to the side slightly, wary of the dirt-caked cobwebs. "I said this is the door—can you open it?"

…  
 _"…I shouldn't be here—"  
"Break the bars. __Find a way in. Subtlety, subterfuge. Find a way_ _."_  
…

The vision—words from the past were being dragged forward to be made real once more, in the present. Numb thoughts struggled to chase the memory down.

"Luke," Shira's voice, more impatient now.

He stared… Couldn't they could feel it; sense it? That silent sound, that unseen awareness which charged the air and scorched his senses, raising the hairs on the back of his neck…

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _"Find a way."_

He stepped forward, resting his hands against the unyielding bulk of the door…and consciously slipped his mind free for the first time in months—

It was there in an instant. It unfurled eagerly, opening up his perceptions exponentially. A surge of multifaceted complexity seeped within every surface and shadow, a flood of acuity, every aspect in vivid detail. No structure or distinction, just a deluge of information, from the turn of the planet to the vibration of a single atom. For a second he floated, weightless, willingly dispersed, the immensity of it hypnotic. But already it curled black at its edges, a susurration of caustic whispers; power and potency there for the taking, pouring in. Easy to drown the loathing with hostility, the anxiety with aggression—so easy, this way; old paths, deep-trodden. His closed lids blinked as he purposely broke the moment. Control. Discipline. Contain and refine it; distil and direct it: the slab beneath his palms—

Its structure, its density, the mass and the heft of it, easily as thick as himself. He could feel its weight as surely as he felt its cool, rough surface. The immense slab rested embedded into a deep groove in the permacrete about it, half its height again above and below. No mechanism to lift it, no power or hinge or pulley. He rested his forehead lightly against it, reaching out; more than that—more than just brawn, surely…look closer.

A change in the door's rear surface, unseen from this side. No wider than his finger, no thicker than a single sheet of flimsyplast. It glowed dully, barely detectable even within the Force. Without thinking, his awareness followed it like a marker, tracing its potential path if the door was lifted.

A trigger, high up to the top of the inset groove, well up within the void above the permacrete roof; a trap which would cave in the corridor beyond. Precise and delicate; pinhead-balanced; lift the door, trigger the trap.

The answer: a narrow horizontal slice, copper-lined, cut into the wall's permacrete groove at the same point. The hairpin trigger of the flimsyplast-thin sheet on the unseen side of the door needed to be pushed delicately back within the hidden cavity, touching none of the conductive sides, at the same time as that massive door was lifted. Simple…if you could see into solid permacrete. If you could move objects with hairs-breadth precision without ever touching them.

The swirl of the Force about him was unsettling. It felt charged, here; potent. Frantic. Or perhaps that was himself; he hadn't called it up this strongly in a long time.

All that roiling power was compressed down to a fine line of intent, as he pushed the trigger delicately back…then the door, its solid mass probably weighing as much as a shuttlecraft. Intense influence dragged in and refined, energy into intent, pure and simple; massive power, whist still maintaining that precarious hold of the small hair-trigger.

Comprehending as he lifted it entirely, Luke moved the mass to the side to allow the slab's lower edge to rest against a small indent in the top of the doorway. It ground sturdily as it came to rest, its weight held clear.

There was a brief waft of air into the corridor beyond, dispelling the stale stench. Strings of cobwebs lifted and settled, caught in the illumination as low lights flickered on. It wasn't long; twenty paces to another substantial door. They walked forward, raising dust with every step. He could taste it in his mouth, gritty and repulsive.

Ten paces down Mara paused at the single standard powered door, and depressed the release plate. Shira leaned against the far wall, blaster in hand, as Mara stepped inside. Luke remained in the corridor, unwilling to touch anything.

"Medi-bay," Mara said quizzically. "Looks pretty standard."

"Leave it," Shira said, eyes going to the far end of the corridor, where a second slab blocked any further progress, black-backed beetles scurrying to its edges in fear of the light. "Luke?"

Her hand pressed unthinkingly to his back and he twitched, uneasy at it. His perceptions—or maybe it was reality itself—seemed to be fragmenting into shuttered moments of the same disparate mix of reluctance and compulsion which had driven his visions, played out on a grander scale. He slowed…

Final door. Final chance. He hesitated, looking to expectant faces; couldn't they sense it, screaming in the stillness?

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here. Shouldn't do this, ever_ _۰_

" _Find a way in. Find a way_ _."_

It was painfully easy, to trace the frame and find the trap. To lift the unliftable, to thread the unreacheable. Far easier than to chart the mire of the vision itself. Red light leached in from the chamber beyond, seeping over his feet as the door ground upwards.

This was it; this was the room that had possessed his dreams and his visions, growing ever more intense until it had begun to intrude on waking thoughts. And here it was, made real. It was this that had rung like a claxon; had screamed in his mind or whispered up his spine, depending on the amount of spice he'd thrown into himself.

 _Technology; automated, ongoing. The precise, synchronized tack of mechanical movement, the steady, regulated_ _babble of bubbles, the tang of medically sterilized fluid,_ _and everywhere, a dark, intense red._

This was it; this was the place he was never meant to go. The vision that wouldn't be held back, the memory that wouldn't be left in the past, the thing that wouldn't die.

 _The thing that wouldn't die._

Was that what he was here for—to stop this? Because it would—it would break the visions and the nightmares. He could halt them all, right here, right now.

 _Greater_ _than that._

A notion of significance and consequence vibrated in the air—was it that which he sensed?

Shira moved past him unaware, as Luke hovered in the doorway, unwilling to enter. The dull red glow bled out from readouts and low lights refracting through tall cylinders of red-lit fluid. Instrument panels self-started in recognition of their entry, lighting it to less bloodlike hues, as the four droids to the rear of the chamber activated but didn't detach from their cradles.

All this Luke observed peripherally, eyes locked on the center of the room as Shira came to a halt, disappointment heavy in her voice and her sense.

"Clones?"

Four cloning cylinders stood arrayed to the center of a chamber that had clearly been built for this express purpose. Taller than a man's height by half, their lower third was taken up by the technology necessary to run them, and the wide, deep caps to their tops were set about by a jumble of pipes ranging from finger to arm-thickness, which disappeared up into the shadows of the high ceiling. Visually they looked similar to medical bacta tanks, particularly in this setting, all four arrayed in a row and each containing what looked like a single viable clone, in regular age splits from around Luke's age—seventeen—to the oldest, whose long brown hair drifted freely in the fluid.

Mara slowed at the entrance beside Luke, uncertain. "Why keep clones here?"

A step further into the room, Shira tipped her head. "Is it Marek? I don't know what he looked like."

Luke turned. "Galen Marek?"

Shira nodded, eyes on the cylinders. "Lord Vader had cloneable material stored, for use in Operation Starkiller."

It was the first Luke had heard. He shook his head, still uneasy, unaccountably breathless. "I killed Marek when I was fourteen years old."

Shira shrugged, seeming unaware of his agitated state. "You killed a version of him, I'm sure."

"No, I killed him. It was the first real…" He broke off; the first real duel he'd ever had. The first time that, at Palpatine's command, the duel would end only with the death of one combatant. Luke himself had brought the truth of Vader's secret training of Marek to Palpatine's attention, and this had been his _reward_. Because an Emperor's Hand always finished whatever task they began, and since it had been Luke who had brought Vader's subterfuge to Palpatine's attention, it had been up to him to end it. Palpatine had confronted Vader and ordered that the boy, Marek, be brought to Coruscant to be tested.

It had been a simple trial: whichever of the two advocates proved stronger, would live. A cockfight on the only level that would amuse his Master. That the boy whom Palpatine had raised, and who had dutifully brought the facts of Vader's betrayal to his Master out of genuine devotion, was placed in mortal danger by the act had been immaterial.

He remembered Han's outrage, his revulsion, when he'd recanted that. At the time, Luke hadn't understood why. Now…perhaps—perhaps they had been too young, he and Marek. Too naïve to possibly comprehend what was truly being asked of them.

He stared at the clones without moving closer. Was this Marek, then? What would he have looked like, in adulthood? Was that what he was here for—to kill Marek, yet again?

 _The thing that wouldn't die._

The trailing embers of countless visions whispered around the chamber, setting his nerves on edge.

His eyes flicked to Shira but she seemed unaware, still casting about the room in hopes of finding something more, all but ignoring the clones, now. "So there's nothing else here?"

"No more chambers," Mara said flatly from the door. "This is the only room beside the inactive medical bay."

Shira had taken a step closer to the cloning cylinders to see the wall behind them as Mara spoke. Now she slowed, voice trailing to a whisper of rare uncertainty. "What's this?" She turned to Luke, eyes wide and uncertain. "I can't sense…"

Luke glanced again to her, his grim train of thought broken at the realization that his Master must have chosen not to inform her of this natural phenomenon. "You see the domes on top of the cloning chambers? The creature inside—the lizard—it instinctively creates a bubble in the Force. It's that you're sensing—or rather, not. You're sensing its influence negating the Force."

Mara glanced only briefly up as Luke explained, her attention on the nearest cloning chamber as she moved past him and into the red-tinged room. Interesting, that Palpatine had chosen to tell Mara about the ysalamiri's existence—because she did know. There was no surprise and only the vaguest curiosity in her stance. Yet he'd taught her only what use of the Force he'd deemed convenient; passive awareness and the ability to communicate over extreme distances. Shira, who at least had some command of the Force because of Vader's training, Palpatine had chosen to tell nothing. Presumably leaving her vulnerable, should he ever have to send standard stormtroopers—or Mara Jade—after her.

Shira's question pulled him out of his reverie, eyes still on the creature. "What is it?"

"They're called ysalamiri. Their natural predator on their home planet hunts by some kind of proto-awareness of the Force, so they developed a biological ability to repel it; to create a bubble about themselves where the Force doesn't exist. They have no awareness or sentience, it's just a genetic ability. That's why I didn't see this, in any visions. I saw the room, but the ysalamiri were interfering with any greater clarity."

"Why are they here?" Even Shira felt it, the longer they stayed in this place: the obligation to whisper.

"The clones, presumably. If they're of Galen Marek then they're Force-sensitive, and Force-sensitive clones are problematic." None of this broader knowledge had been withheld from him, only the existence of this chamber. But then if it was here at his father's doing, as it had to be if this was Marek, then that made sense. "You can't have two genetically identical Force-sensitive beings in existence at the same time. The Force is an entirely natural entity, and clones are artificial constructs. If a clone is Force-sensitive you have to protect it from reverberations within the Force or it becomes unviable."

Shira nodded slowly. "I don't know if Lord Vader ever had a viable clone, but Marek was cloned multiple times, to my knowledge."

"Using a cloning facility out here in the back of beyond, to keep the fact from Palpatine," Luke nodded.

"I'm not sure how much Palpatine knew at first," Shira shrugged, "or why the Emperor would have ordered you to duel Marek. But later on, Lord Vader gave the distinct impression that the Emperor knew about the clones—trust me on that."

Luke stared. Of course; Shira had initially been trained by Vader, to Palpatine's requirements. The only Hand to have been instructed this way. It was because of those beginnings that she had a greater all-round knowledge of the Force than Mara, learned in childhood from her mentor. And in Luke's experience, those early years with one's Master instilled a base loyalty which never truly shifted.

In Luke, that had been to Palpatine. Did Shira feel the same fundamental loyalty to Vader?

Did she know secrets of Vader that Luke himself, viewed by his father as nothing more than an ongoing threat, would never have been close enough to be privy to? He stared, feeling a flush of envy that she had been so trusted by his father. A pang of regret that he himself hadn't, and never could be. A stab of shame, as if even now such thoughts were a betrayal of Palpatine.

On the back of that came a cold, seeping suspicion; had his father been raising a clone of Marek with the intention of turning it on Luke?

Dry irony twitched his lip; it would have amused Palpatine no end, that Darth Vader's ultimate act of treachery had been to rear a clone in secret for the specific task of killing a youth who was, in actuality, Vader's own son.

Yes, Luke could see how his Master would have appreciated that; could imagine those bloodless lips curling up in gratified delight. His own wry smile widened…then fell straight at his amusement. What was wrong with him, that on some level he felt the same?

Shira was still casting about the room, all but ignoring the clones now. "So there's nothing else here?"

"No more chambers," Mara repeated flatly. "No Military Access codes. Nothing even capable of storing them, that I can see. The Force-sealed doors were to protect the clones, nothing more. If so, they were probably put in place by Vader, anyway." She hesitated, eyes returning to the cloning cylinders. "What do we do with them?"

"We need to destroy them." The speed of his answer and the force of his own voice surprised Luke.

Shira half-turned. "Why?"

"Bec—" Luke paused, fingers cramping closed, craving a weapon. As his eyes traveled along the cloning cylinders, it occurred that he had none; would he have done so already, if he had? Because now, speaking it aloud, it seemed so obvious—crucial. Not because it was Marek, but because… "Something's wrong. The cloning chambers, the vision, the way it feels, the way it… Everything about this is wrong. All I know is, they have to be destroyed."

"You actually think these are viable clones?" Mara moved towards the tanks, the only one who seemed willing to enter the influence of the ysalamiri—perhaps because she couldn't sense the loss of Force contact as keenly.

"It doesn't matter. They need to be eliminated."

Shira was already turning about to leave. "Do what you want with them. I don't care."

Something unseen howled in outrage as Luke stared, pushed and pulled, trapped to statue-stillness as Mara leaned in close to the curve of the nearest chamber's transparisteel canopy to study the floating clone. The oldest of the batch, it was curled slightly over with its back to them, head tucked in, long hair a loose veil as it drifted in dreamless oblivion.

Much as he found destroying insensible clones objectionable, a far deeper instinct still made the fingers of Luke's hand twitch impulsively, desiring the hilt of a saber. Wanting this over and done with once and for—

"This isn't Galen Marek," Mara said gravely.

There was something in her voice, a shaky mix of subdued uncertainty and barely-controlled excitement which brought Luke's eyes to the clones in the chambers. His breath left him in a low sigh, as anticipation and uncertainty finally overcame ingrained reluctance and he stepped forward.

Walking softly towards the cloning chamber he looked to the being who floated in the sterile amniotic fluid, studying it, moving slightly to allow for the distortion of the thick, curved transparisteel tube. It was the oldest clone there, in years. Maybe thirty-five if it had grown naturally. Its face, never having moved to express emotion, was unlined, making it hard to tell. As a clone, with accelerated growth factored in, its real-time age could have been anything from eight to eighteen.

He'd seen clones years before, when he'd been taken to the secure Arkanian facility on Centax-2. They were illegal of course, their creation strictly limited to military and medical use in the early days of his Master's rule, on the prudent grounds of stopping anyone else raising an army sufficient to challenge the new Emperor. But a few were still grown under strictly controlled license, and during lessons on cloning technology Luke had been taken, aged thirteen, to see the facility and the process. So he knew the differences between the glorified Arkanian Spaarti-cylinders used on Coruscant's moon, and the more sophisticated Kaminoan cloning cylinders here today, which were the slowest and most sophisticated method, taking years rather than months to mature. Such clones were far higher quality, the slower they were developed, the better. Arkanian clones were stormtrooper material, he had been taught; blaster fodder. Kaminoan clones received far less invasive memory imprints from their genetic donor, imbued at a slow rate as they grew.

Drawing close to the tube he studied the clone within. It would have been taller than Luke if it was stood, but then most were. At seventeen and having had a harsh upbringing, he was aware of his slight frame but not bothered by it; he knew he was faster and more agile than most when he needed to be, so his appearance had become just one more factor which could be used to his advantage.

Its dark hair was long enough to swirl about its head in the amniotic fluid, its cheekbones high, its lips narrow. Cautiously Luke lifted a hand to rest against the transparisteel tube—and quite suddenly the clone in the tube twitched, head jolting as if in the throes of a dream. Luke jerked back, unsettled by the first real animation that the face had…

And everything stopped. His scalp cooled as the blood drained away, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy as the hairs to the back of his neck rose. He stared at the clone without blinking, without breathing, as all the recurring visions fell, leaden, into place:

That sense of a familiar tune played a shade off-key. That old knowledge, deeply embedded, carrying within it an agonizing blaze of pain and bewilderment. It was the knowledge itself that fired that all-consuming guilt and revulsion, because the fragment of an old vision that he was taking apart a piece at a time was forbidden; he knew that. Old lessons had screeched their fury at his doing so, making him flinch reflexively back time and again: _never do this; never try, never even consider it! Not this mind, not ever._

There was only one person who would give that command, who was capable of underlining it so ruthlessly. One mind whose secrets he was told never, _ever_ to try to penetrate.

But he had. Unwittingly, unintentionally, he had breached them.

He remembered the moment exactly, now. Unraveled, it scorched a path from past to present, lighting a chain reaction of memories and moments. He remembered the brief flash of insight, gained when he had been using the Force to seek out distant knowledge on his Master's command, his senses strained to their very limits. Remembered pulling back from a far wider awareness to the room in which they stood, he and his Master.

For a fraction of an instant everything had been clear, everything lucid, from the ponderous grind of the galaxy rotating to the single breath of an old man …

…and in that moment of acute awareness, he _saw_.

 _"What do you see?_ " _  
"I shouldn't be here. It's barred_."

Even as Luke had tried to back down, his Master had pushed for more, sure that it was Vader—

 _"Physically?"  
"And mentally."  
"Break the bars. Find another way in. Subtlety, subterfuge. Find a way." _

Everything…it had gone against _everything_ Luke had been taught. But not yet realizing what it was that he was mentally unraveling with such softly-veiled subtlety, he'd done so, on his Master's command. Unknowingly gone against that most basic command simply to look at it, let alone unlock it.

And the closer he'd come to breaking through, the more uneasy he'd become. Perhaps there'd been some vague sense of his Master within, some inkling of recognition which had fired those familiar lessons, learned the very first time he'd reached out with a child's rudimentary ability to search his Master's thoughts—and faced instant, vehement retaliation.

A brutal lesson, ruthlessly calculated to never be forgotten or ignored: _۰_ _Shouldn't look here. Not this mind, not ever_ _۰_

Yet he was being asked—ordered—to do just that, neither realizing.

 _"Find a way in."  
"I can't."  
"Do as I tell you!" _

Because he could; _could_ steal unnoticed around and through defenses that were near-perfect. With effortless dexterity, he'd scattered himself lighter, ever more delicate, ever more intangible, until the solid became insubstantial…

 _That recurring background scratch against the inside of his skull, completely familiar yet somehow removed. A fraction displaced, a shade offset._

 _Like a well-known tune in the wrong key._

 _That precise, synchronized tack of technology, the steady, regulated hubbub of air in fluid._

 _That curl of silent pleasure at its very existence; security, insurance.  
._

۰ _Shouldn't look here. Not like_ _this_ ۰  
۰ _Not this mind, not like_ _this, not ever_ ۰  
...

" _What did you see?"  
"I didn't…I didn't see anything, Master."_

Because having broken through, reflexive denial had made Luke bury the knowledge deep, in an effort to deny his misstep; knowledge of an absolute boundary breached, a secret long-hidden that he'd tried so hard to forget.

But events had pushed ahead with inexorable force, dragging even the mighty and the powerful down in their wake.

It should have died, the vision; should have been the ghost of a memory, irrelevant and forgotten, laid to rest with the violent death of its maker.

But it wouldn't leave him be. Wouldn't stay in the past. Wouldn't die. That whisper in the hurricane that Luke couldn't help but strain to hear still sounded its siren song or howled its implacable demand every time his defenses dropped. It still loosed its silent roar into the darkness where only he could hear, clawing for release.

He stared, mute, as every facet ground into place like the closing of a tomb...was this Hell, after all? Had he been lured, like the legends of old, into opening gates of Hell and walking willingly inside, one final command answered.

Or was he simply going insane? In that moment, it seemed the easier option.

.

It was Mara who said it—who uttered the unthinkable in hushed and reverential tones.

"It's Palpatine."

.

.

.

.

.

They stared…they all stared in silence, each lost in their own private maelstrom.

In his own, a million questions rose and flared, too fast to process, whilst some surface veneer of calm tracked and tacked together the events on autopilot, as his heart pounded painfully.

The existence of clones wasn't as obvious as it seemed; clones were _clones_ —not the original. Yes, some might see it as a form of immortality for his Master to do such a thing…but it was Palpatine's _own_ life which concerned him, its sole continuation which drove him. He couldn't have been less interested in what happened beyond his death. Such petty tricks of smoke and mirrors held no draw.

So what was this? Cannon-fodder, as all clones were, to his Master's self-serving mind? Targets to draw fire, in an assassination attempt? His Master had never needed such crutches before, supremely confident of his own abilities.

Some incomplete game, then, that would never reach fruition?

Shira's voice was a whisper. "What should we do?"

Mara made a brief double-take away from the cylinder towards her, blind loyalty driving her response. "Open it, of course."

"Wait!" He stepped forward to grab her arm as she reached out to the console, her eyes roving its controls.

When she froze to stare, Shira responding the same way, he was acutely aware of two sets of eyes on him, both wary and curious…and what could he say? What reason could he possibly give? Could he seriously claim that the ideal Master whom they'd been raised from childhood to feel nothing but unconditional loyalty to, was a fiction? That he alone knew that the truth had been a vindictive, manipulative, brutally pitiless old man. That so completely had Luke too been controlled, that even now—even now, disillusioned, lied to, his father dead because of this man—even now, he couldn't quite bring himself to speak against Palpatine out loud.

Sith help him, he couldn't say it. All he could do was stare, the words locked frozen in his chest.

Slowly, eyes narrowed, Mara extricated herself and turned about. It didn't take her long to decipher the console, its functions clearly marked, all leading to a single control to the top of the board. She lifted the small clear guard that covered the initiation sequence and, with barely a pause, pressed it down.

He didn't stop her…why didn't he stop her?

.

Its sequence triggered, the facility sprang to automated life as the dormant droids undocked from wall mounts, and the massive hoist slid overhead. Soft lights within the tank which held the oldest clone flashed then deactivated, and the massive sealed cap overhead released with a grating grind to disappear into the ceiling.

All three stepped back, Luke almost to the door. It was just a clone…just a physical copy of the man he'd known, not the man himself. Mara half-turned, and Luke realized he'd been muttering the words aloud. He fell to silence, bringing his hand to his mouth to chew at his thumbnail as his thoughts ran on in silent reassurance; it wasn't Palpatine—it wasn't. Nor could it be. The man himself was dead. This was just a clone. Just a simple clone…

At the cloning facility on Coruscant's moon he'd watched a completed clone be… _born_. It had seemed such a serene way to come into the world, considering that most were created for war. Hoisted from the amniotic fluid, it was settled onto a gurney whilst droids inserted a pipe to clear its airways. The half-aware clone had seemed barely awake, curling onto its side, hands wrapped in close like a new-born baby.

He expected no difference here, as the dedicated mechanism hoisted the oldest clone gently from the tank and lowered it onto the waiting gurney where the medi-droids reached out in unison, each firing off brief runs of audio code as they performed their task, removing feeding tubes, waste tubes, monitoring sensors. They worked at speed but with no sense of urgency, clearing its airways and wrapping a foil blanket about it as it shied back from unfamiliar touch.

Luke took a step closer, his wariness overcome by the placid, bewildered creature.

There was something about it, he supposed, which reminded him of his Master. Some physical resemblance, though none mental. Something in the set of its eyes and the line of its narrow lips. Though he had known Palpatine only in old age; this clone was in its physical prime.

Mentally, it was…what? It had awareness, but even clear of its sheltering ysalamiri, its connection to the Force was scattered and diffuse to Luke's perceptive senses. As he stared the clone's eyes flickered open without yet focusing, and Luke took in a sharp breath, shocked more by this than anything else: they were blue! Normal, human eyes, pale gray-blue, like a cool winter sky. The clone lay still for long moments, its breathing shallow, tasting air for the first time…

A split-second of warning razed through the Force, coming from all around them and making Luke brace—then the droids which had been tending to it were thrown back against the walls by invisible force, gouts of sparks flaring within their crushed casings as they squealed in shock.

For a second Luke looked to Shira, thinking she must have done this, though the power and precision of the Force-blow which had flared outwards far surpassed any ability she'd ever shown. His eyes turned quickly back to the clone, though he knew it couldn't have originated there…

A tense, uncertain silence held, broken only by the hiss of shorted circuitry. The clone's breathing became increasingly labored, each gasp fired by a brief, broken hitch.

And as Luke stared…as he stared, something unseen and vast dragged into focus within the Force, pushing the air from his lungs in a shocked gasp as it snapped in about the besieged clone which rolled to its side, hands wrapping about its head as if trying to protect itself.

Within a second it was convulsing, body arching as its muscles spasmed and shuddered, its first sound an inarticulate yell fired by pain and bewilderment, making Luke back up two hasty steps. In its desperate struggle the clone fell from the gurney entirely, landing heavily on its side on the floor as it let out a howl…then it silenced and stilled, gasping for breath as its body relaxed completely.

Everyone remained frozen, locked in place, uncertain whether to step forward or shy back as the clone began to move clumsily, dragging itself to half-sitting. For a few seconds it stared, gray-blue eyes struggling to pull the world about it into focus…and slowly, they alighted on Luke.

" _Houaaagh_!" It made an inarticulate yell of pure fury, the power of which brought the clone's legs under it as it launched forward, arms outstretched, fingers curved to claws.

Luke staggered back as it came forward, taller than him by a head-height, thicker-set and wider across the shoulders in adulthood, all the power of that wild lunge thrown into him as hands closed about his throat—

But it was all weight and fury, with no expertise. Without even thinking Luke brought his forearms up inside the clone's and knocked them outwards, freeing himself effortlessly. It had barely reacted before Luke's hand tightened into a fist to deliver a swift, explosive blow hard up against its sternum, making no attempt to moderate it in respect of its recipient; this was a clone, nothing more.

Winded, it stumbled back and over, one hand to the ground to catch itself as it collapsed, ribs heaving, gulping for breath as it looked to Luke in shock and open fury.

And again that undecipherable twist wrenched reality and sliced through Luke's awareness, infinitely more powerful this time, making him flinch violently as his hands came to his temples against the pressure there. An all-encompassing jolt of colossal Force power snapped the air, the room, the galaxy itself into enforced alignment.

The clone lifted its head to let out another howl, lips pulled back from its teeth in vehement outrage—

And this time it was fired by true possession, as those very human eyes scorched from pale blue-gray to flecked amber then fiery yellow ocher. In the same moment it brought its hands up, palms out…to deliver a Force-blow that knocked Luke back several feet to impact heavily against the wall behind him, hard enough that he saw stars and fell in a tumble of limbs.

He hit the ground and remained there half-upright to stare, aghast and breathless, at the man before him. But it wasn't at the blow that had knocked the air from his body so completely…it was recognition.

The man stumbled to his feet, lips still drawn back in an animalistic hiss as he struggled to speak through a mouth unused to forming words. But he summoned sufficient control to voice the only one that had ever mattered to him.

"Kneel!"

Luke held those sulfur-yellow eyes for a shocked moment longer…then pulled himself straight to immediately drop forward in genuflection, old habits deeply ingrained, his head lowered in respectful recognition. Not of the man's abilities; he could have easily overcome them, even now.

But the power that had lifted Luke bodily from the ground had an inimitable signature within the Force. One that he remembered in precise, piercing detail, having been subjected to it since childhood. Because whatever had happened in those brief Force-fed flares, this was no longer simply a clone, a facsimile of the man he had known so well. Luke's comprehension of that now fired on an intuitive and profound level, realization which had snapped into being when that final all-encompassing rush of Force power had imbued the clone's body with a unique consciousness.

This was absolute recognition, with not a sliver of doubt.

 _This was Palpatine._

.

.

.

.


	9. Chapter 9

.

.

 **CHAPTER NINE**

.

.

.

They stood in a huddle outside the door to the small medical unit set within the hidden cloning chambers of storehouse Rv-9, their silence bound by a shocked stillness as the facts slowly seeped into their consciousness. Even Shira, stood to Luke's right, was impassive and uneasy. To his left, Mara leaned against the wall, eyes down. Both women were nervous, both uncertain, thoughts a maelstrom within the Force.

Luke…he didn't even know what he felt; there were no words for the jumble of apprehension and trepidation and deep misgivings which had wrapped about him, making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. He felt suddenly immensely tired. He felt numb. He felt physically sick.

The door slid back, and one of the two still-operative medical droids hissed silently forward.

"Commander Antilles?"

"That's me."

"The Emperor will speak with you."

A brief flush of weakness as his blood drained from his head made him wonder if he could even walk…then he pushed up from the wall and set forward in silence. When Brie made to follow as he crossed the door's threshold, the droid lifted an appendage-loaded arm. "I am sorry, only Commander Antilles."

.

.

The room was dark and crowded with the paraphernalia of its trade, which pipped and lit in brief pulses, casting a vague glow over the man who lay on the high medical gurney at its center.

It was hard to walk forward.

The man was propped slightly up, eyes closed. Unseen, Luke's head shook slowly at this unfathomable fusion of…what? It looked like him, a little, he supposed. He'd only known his Master as an old man. This could have been any man; thirty-five perhaps, his slightly graying hair now pulled back and secured at his nape, high cheeks a little hollow, skin a little pale…but his sense—his sense in the Force was unmistakably, distinctively unique. This was not a _copy_ ; it was not a duplicate reproducing that personality, replicating that consciousness. It was the sum of a lifetime of awareness and memory and intent—all that made up the individual. This was a dead man's soul animating an empty body.

"Child…" One hand reached out and Luke hesitated, uncertain. It was the barest second, not even the length of a single breath…but that hand reached out a little straighter, fingers clawing slightly as the demand came stronger in familiar tones. "Luke."

His feet moved of their own volition at the command, taking him forward. When he reached the side of the high gurney Palpatine's fingers clasped about his wrist to pull him closer, holding him there.

"You took so long," Palpatine rasped, eyes closed. "I called to you. Summoned you here." Ocher eyes opened abruptly—those, Luke recognized. "You turned your back on me."

He tried to backstep, but that pale hand held him like a vice. "I didn't know. I didn't know it was you, I thought it was j—" What? Just nightmares—more of the same. How did he say that to the man who had instigated them. Part of Luke wouldn't give him the pleasure, another part was afraid to admit such weakness, even here, like this. "I'm sorry." The words came easily; he'd spent half his life asking forgiveness from this man, for one perceived failing or another. "I didn't know."

"Always apologizing after the fact." The man's eyes flickered closed, tone dismissive, and Luke wondered if he could safely extricate his arm…

Palpatine jolted slightly, amber gaze latching onto Luke. "You could not hear me, except when you too drifted. In sleep, in thought…"

"You died." It was all he could say. He was surprised by how much abandonment was contained within his own flatly-spoken words.

A brief, triumphant smile tugged at bloodless lips. "I transcended. Even death cannot take me, now."

There should have been only relief at his Master's return, but all Luke could do was stare, numb, as the consequence of those words weighted not only the moment, but every possible future.

"You are…conflicted. Confused. I understand." Palpatine nodded slowly in reassurance as his eyes flickered closed, his hand loosening to pat lightly against Luke's where it gripped, white-knuckled, against the edge of the gurney. "Stay here, at my door, tonight. Send the others away. Let me rest. We have much to do tomorrow."

.

.

The door slid closed behind him, and for a brief second Luke stood in the corridor, wondering what Jade and Brie would do if he simply slumped to the floor…

Instead he forced his voice, quiet and unsteady. "He won't see anyone else tonight. You should go and get some rest."

Neither moved.

"Is it…?" Mara's voice was full of hope. Why didn't he feel the same?

"It's Palpatine, yes."

"…How?"

"You know about holocrons? Receptacles of Sith lore."

"There was a vault," Mara nodded. "Behind the hidden door in the west drawing room. It was a nine-level code, failsafe-rigged. And each of the individual holocrons were trip-rigged, too."

Luke nodded. "He had around thirty, thirty-five that I knew of, Sith and Jedi. There are supposedly methods in old Sith doctrines to maintain one's consciousness intact, maintain its integrity beyond a failing body. Techniques to transfer that essence to a new vessel."

"So this was always a possibility," Shira said slowly. "You both knew that, yet neither of you thought to mention it before toda—"

"No, it wasn't. There was never a complete text. They were all partial or flawed, none were even close to consistent. And cloning technology had failed to produce a viable Force-sensitive clone—ever. You said yourself that Vader had tried and failed repeatedly with Marek. It _wasn't possible_."

"I want to see him."

"I just told you he won't see anyone tonight. He's resting."

"Oh, so suddenly you're the gatekeeper," Shira challenged.

"No. I'm just passing on what he told me." Luke moved to the side in invitation. "But go in there and ask him, if it means that much to you."

She shifted uneasily without stepping forwards and Luke pressed on, voice hollow, going through the motions on autopilot. "Go back to the ship and send down a guard detail, but don't tell them about…about him. Remember, you're among Moff Kessler's men. Post them to the doors of the storehouse with orders not to enter. You need to ensure the _Steadfast's_ on full battle-ready status, and maintain long-range scans in case the Rebel Destroyer decides to do another pass of the system. I don't want to move him now, he needs to rest, but make ready to send a full-facility medical shuttle by dawn. If you know any other Destroyer who you think is reliably loyal, contact it and have it wait at a pre-set meeting point just over the Imperial border, but tell it not to arrive too far in advance. Under no circumstances tell anyone why. Invoke a Hand code if you have to…or use the code Aubresh three-ninety, that should get a reaction. And set a standing order to maintain open Bridge comms through the night, full data drop to my comlink, particularly anything else in or near-system. Every hour." He paused, aware that he'd dropped back into default military procedures, both in thought and practice. "We should all get some rest. It'll be a long day tomorrow."

Mara hesitated. "What about you?"

"I'm…he ordered me to stay here, outside the room."

"…Just you," Shira pushed. He could hear the pique in her voice.

"Yes, just me, alright?! I don't want to be here any more than you want me to be, but that was the order. If you want to disobey it then go ahead, be my guest. But if you want to actually impress him then do as he ordered, go back to the ship, set up the guard detail, start the scans and get the hell off my back!"

She glared, green eyes narrow slits…but after a few moments she turned and walked down the corridor, followed by Mara. As she left, Shira reached up to slap the lightpanel, reducing the hallway to darkness. Alone as they left, Luke slid down the wall behind him to sit, elbows on his bent knees, head in his hands, cursing quietly into the shadows.

After a few seconds Mara reappeared at the turn of the corridor to walk silently back. She stopped at the wall opposite him and crouched down to sit in silence for a while, before she finally said the one thing that mattered, Luke supposed.

"It's really him?"

"Yes. He must have successfully combined the fragments of information from the holocrons," Luke murmured, of the old Sith artifacts whose contents his Master had always jealously guarded. He knew for a fact that his father had regularly invested time and effort in locating unfound holocrons for the knowledge they contained. In fact he'd once stolen a newly-unearthed one from his father's quarters onboard the ISD _Hood_ , to present to Palpatine.

Stolen from his own father, for this man's approval…only not this man. Or was it? Luke sighed, feeling his whole body deflate. "You don't understand, do you?"

She stared in silence, waiting.

"He didn't trust us—any of us." It hurt him to say it, but it was an old pain, a twinge he'd endured often at his Master's hand. So to feel it again now was…if not a comfort then at least a return to form. After almost a year of aimless drifting there was solace in familiarity—even this. But he was no longer the naïve or trusting ingénue.

"Look at what we knew—what he taught us; what he _allowed_ us. You and Shira knew about this warehouse and I didn't, yet I was the only one who could have broken into this facility. You know the cipher to the holocron vault, don't you? But you could never have accessed their knowledge, yet Shira, who could have used her limited Force abilities to at least open and begin to access them, didn't have their location or vault entry codes. I knew about the principles of essence transference from the Holocrons, but I'd been told it was impossible, and didn't know this cloning facility even existed. Don't you see—none of us were given enough information to act, even if we'd suspected. It would have required at least two of us. The chance of one of us going rogue and turning against Palpatine was small, but two…? Needing two of us to get in here pretty much guaranteed that our motives would be reliable."

"He was protecting himself," Mara nodded in realization.

"He doesn't trust—he never trusts, even us. Look at us. If any one of us rebelled, the other two had sufficient knowledge or abilities to deal with them."

"Then why you?" Mara asked. "Why teach you so much?"

"To deal with Vader." Did she know her own master's mind so little…or did Luke know it far too well? "Palpatine still needed a Sith advocate, he needed that level of power out there, operating to his advantage. If he absolutely had to, he could have trained a new advocate after Vader's death, but he always suspected that Vader would turn on him, eventually. So he needed someone capable of stopping him. He spent his whole life cultivating that rivalry between us, that enmity. He'll…"

Luke broke off, realization running cold: he would do it again, now—was already starting to do so by ordering only Luke to remain here, firing up that contention between his advocates. Divide and rule. Unease crawled coolly up his spine as he stared at Mara...

No division of loyalty, not even attention, was allowed. It simply wasn't tolerated…ever. For a brief, breathless second Luke was a child of eleven again, battered and bruised and staring at the holo of his adoptive mother Breha Organa as she shouted out to him, eyes wide, the moment frozen in time by raw horror as the image exploded into a fine spray of spattered scarlet…

"Luke?"

Luke jolted back as Mara's hand reached to touch his bent knee, unaware that she'd leaned closer. He rose rapidly, retreating a hasty step so that his back hit the wall. "You should…you need to go."

"…Are you alright here, alone? You seem…"

"I'm fine. I've spent my whole life right here. This is what I do—what he raised me and trained me for." He spoke without thinking, old habits cutting in now that Palpatine had returned, so that he instinctively rejected any attempt at closeness, driven by a lifetime's knowledge of the consequences of allowing it in any form. "He gave you an order…I suggest you obey it."

She stared, irked by his abrupt tone…and for a split-second, he wanted to take it back. But he bit his tongue and locked his jaw, turning away.

Mara rose and left without another word.

.

.

.

.

.

.

"My advocate…my strength." Palpatine patted lightly on the back of Luke's hand, which rested against the high medical gurney.

It was a blatant play of weakness, when the medical droid had already confirmed after a raft of tests when they'd return to the _Steadfast_ that morning, that he was in perfect health. A thirty-six year old body that up until now, had never had so much as a bruise to mar it. Luke stared, wondering in that second whether the consciousness which had existed within it throughout that time had even known what had happened.

Palpatine smiled and let his head drop against the raised backrest. "Ask your questions."

His voice was the same. Not as cracked or hoarse, but shot through with all of the same self-assured confidence. The same edge of patronizing impatience.

"… I don't have any."

Those narrow lips twitched just slightly in a disconcerting parody of his old Master's smile, like an impersonator who had spent hours studying his mark. "None?"

"Do you want me to have them set course for Coruscant?" What else was there to say?

To date no-one else had been allowed in, Palpatine's command relayed to Shira, who voiced it to Captain Beyer. The _Steadfast_ operated on full security; silent running. Beyer, the Captain appointed by Moff Kessler, had so far tolerated the commands handed out, probably because they were making their way back into Imperial space as per the originally agreed mission parameters. But eventually he'd start to ask questions about who exactly had been brought onboard, Luke knew.

"No. We will remain on our present heading until I am satisfied that everything is as I expect. Which Destroyer is this?"

"You're onboard the _Steadfast_."

"What happened at Corsin drydock?"

 _The Empire fell._ He wanted to say it, for the satisfaction of seeing his Master's face when he did…but he looked down, silent.

A hand reached up to finger through his hair, when it fell before his eyes.

"And what is this?" Palpatine mocked in amusement. "A black-haired advocate? How easy your life must have been whilst I've been absent, to have time for such trivial frivolity."

Luke twitched clear uneasily, running his fingers through his hair to coax it back from his face. "A lot has changed."

The studied smile which held for far too long was eerily familiar, despite the altered face. "Within my Empire…or yourself?"

Luke looked away, suddenly unwilling to be called to task. "How are you here?"

That youthful face stared with old eyes, as his Master's lip twitched in knowing amusement…but he seemed willing to let the bluntness of Luke's avoidance pass. For now.

"You know there are methods within the holocrons, old Sith doctrines to maintain one's consciousness intact, after death—maintain its integrity, its will. Techniques to transfer that essence to a new vessel."

His access to such knowledge had been limited, of course. Palpatine had always promised more when he was older, but he'd never granted Lord Vader any, so Luke had neither expected nor pursued it. In truth, he'd felt no particular desire to do so. Still; "They were flawed—that's what you told me."

"But I knew how. And specific cloning technology was developed."

Shira's words played again through Luke's thoughts; " _Marek was cloned multiple times to my knowledge … Certainly later on, Lord Vader gave the distinct impression that the Emperor knew about the clones."_

Experimentation; the creation of a stable Force-sensitive clone, the foundation of all that his Master intended. Without it, the power of essence transference was irrelevant.

Palpatine relaxed back onto the medical bed as he spoke. His voice was settling with use now, so that he sounded more like the man Luke had known. It was becoming easier to think of him in those terms. If Luke had closed his eyes, he could so easily have imagined his old Master there, the inflection and rhythm of that voice completely familiar, the sense of him, even as a passive awareness, deeply rooted in Luke's memories since childhood.

"I had allowed for everything, I believed. The theory of essence transferral was mastered. My clones were safe, protected. No memory-imprint was laid during their development; they were essentially empty vessels, awaiting my arrival. I had at my disposal the tools to overcome the unconquerable. Death itself could not hold me." He paused, ocher eyes bright in the reliving of his achievement….then his smooth face fell in appreciation of the irony. "Ah, but it had one last blow to level. One last trick to bring me low. The very thing that made it all possible was my undoing."

"The ysalamiri," Luke murmured.

"The ysalamiri. They protected my growing clones from the influence of the Force; made them viable. But…ah—the Great Unknown! Death clung to its secrets, guarding them from my comprehension in life."

Luke waited…and Palpatine nodded slowly as he continued.

"I had thought it would be a simple task, to trigger the automated sequence that would destroy the ysalamiri over the oldest clone. Child's-play, for any Force-sensitive. Everything had been accounted for, the process reduced to a single prompt, a single key to initiate the destruction of the ysalamiri over the oldest cloning chamber, and its birth into consciousness. But there was one thing which I could not test—had not even considered: the constraints placed upon my abilities, once free of the body which had supported them." Ocher eyes lifted to Luke's. "I could not affect this plane of existence, you see. Although I was present within the Force I had no physical presence, and therefore could have no physical effect upon the physical galaxy. The simplest of physical Force-manipulations—those I had accomplished without the slightest consideration during life—were beyond me. And so, therefore, was the simple depression of a single key."

"You had no way to initiate anything."

"Without the ability to depress the trigger, I could not activate the release process. Without the initiation process to destroy the ysalamiri protecting my clone, then I could not enter the body grown for me. Because I could not enter a physical body, I could have no influence on the physical world, and because I could cause no physical effect, I could not depress the trigger to destroy the ysalamiri. The perfect trap." He paused, eyes losing focus. "Ah, but I had the greater resolve. To prevail. To triumph. To cross the void in _some_ way! If I could not have physical effect—if I was only consciousness, a mind in the void—then I could reach out to another mind. I needed someone to hear me…but so few were capable. To even find you—to locate one mind in the breadth and span of the entire galaxy with nothing to guide or anchor me—was a staggering, arduous feat. A single psyche in the chaos of the void, a single thread whipping in the midst of a hurricane. One whom I could trust, when at my most vulnerable."

He made it sound like an honor…but those nightmares still screamed at the edge of Luke's memories, of countless nights waking drenched in sweat, believing absolutely that if he had turned in the darkness he would see his dead Master spouting rage and wrath, lips snarled back from wasted teeth, screeching accusations which found him forever wanting, his failure crushing. Remembered night after night in which he would jolt awake, chest heaving, heart pounding, compelled to rise and turn on every light to dispel the shadows as he trembled, the remnants of the dream still howling inside his head…

Palpatine continued, either unknowing or uncaring of all he'd inflicted. "And when I found you, when I achieved the inconceivable…you shunned me. Ignored me. Turned away."

And there— _there_ was the first accusation.

"I'm…sorry. I didn't know—how could I?"

Thin lips twitched briefly in dry disappointment, as if the lack of knowledge was entirely Luke's fault. "Of course not. Leave me now, I will rest." He let his head loll loose to the side, voice a self-indulgent whisper. "Tomorrow…tomorrow we will resume our old path, and all will be as it was. As it should be."

"There are…complications. Things have—"

"We will overcome them, my loyal advocate. Now that I am here to guide you, as I always have, we will combine our power, and prevail. Tomorrow…tomorrow, we will set about bending the galaxy to my cause. For tonight, bask in the knowledge that you alone laid the path for your Master to return, triumphant, from the very maw of death. "

.

.

.

He'd walked four levels before his mind caught up with his steps, and he wondered where he was going.

Away. That had been it. Just…away from where he'd been.

He'd walked another level before he realized that he'd zoned out again. Walked another before he recognized where his thoughts were now, and forced himself to stop.

He felt the driving need to go to Mara. To wrap his arms around her and bury his face in the join of her pale shoulder and slim neck. To feel her hair soft against his skin, to breathe her in… All of those desperate cravings coiled ever tighter within him—along with the absolute knowledge that he couldn't. Ever again. If he went to her even once, if he permitted Palpatine to see that he'd allowed himself to form an attachment in even the vaguest of terms, let alone this, then Palpatine would remove her. Luke knew that.

The only way to keep her safe was to let her go.

He could do that. He'd done it so many times, with so many things. It left a void within him, for a while…but he'd learned long ago that though he couldn't collapse such voids entirely, he could blur their existence. Numb them.

And in the face of that knowledge, came another craving.

.

Luke slowed at her door, lips pressing to a thin line…then knocked gently. "Shira…I know you're there. Let me in."

The door slid back and Shira glared at him through narrowed eyes.

Luke sighed. "Before you start, I don't decide who he does and doesn't see."

"It just so happens that he only sees you?" She turned to walk back into her quarters, and he followed before the door slid shut.

"No, it just so happens that he's up to his old games. He's playing us against one another."

"He never did that before, on Coruscant—not to me."

"Things have changed. Before, you were considered just another subordinate. Now, you're a threat. You should be flattered."

She stopped pacing to turn and stare. "Or maybe it's you who considers me a threat."

"To what?" Luke said flatly. "You were dismissed from his presence in the Rhen Var storehouse last night, and again from the medi-center here this morning, when he was transferred to the _Steadfast_. I don't need to cement my position, Shira; I've been where I am right now for my whole life." He didn't particularly care about that, but there was no point in saying that aloud. First because she wouldn't understand, and second because he'd been taught better than to show a chink in his armor to someone like her. Like Palpatine, he knew a predator when he saw one. He wasn't particularly afraid—he had claws and teeth enough of his own—but that didn't mean he'd show the smallest trace of weakness, even here.

She glared and Luke sighed, silently chiding himself for feeling even a shade of sympathy at her obvious uncertainty in the shifting ground underfoot. "Look, just keep on doing what you're doing. Keep on smoothing the waters with Captain Beyer and Moff Kessler. Keep everything running to his advantage."

"Is that an order from Palpatine?"

"No."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "Is it an order from you?"

There was something in the way that she said it, equal parts wary of, and acknowledging, his restored status…and it was with her recognition that Luke saw it himself; saw the role he'd slipped into without conscious thought. The one he'd been groomed for his whole life. The one he'd dreaded.

He took an unsteady step back. "No... No, it's not an order. You want to prove yourself…that's how you do it."

She frowned, hair brushing her shoulders when she tilted her head to the side. "And why would you help me?"

"Is there some reason I shouldn't?"

"What do you get out of it?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you here at all?"

He sighed and looked down from those skeptical eyes, chewing his lip. "You know why I'm here."

Realization twitched the corner of her dark lips to a brief smile, as the power in the room shifted. Slinking forward she leaned in, radiating confidence once more as she settled her arms loosely over his shoulders. He remained straight, his chin dropping a fraction to hold her gaze as she pressed close enough that her breath came cool on the skin of his neck.

"Old habits?" she murmured, dark lips holding their smile as they parted.

"Exactly that," Luke purposely spoke as she neared, breaking her ability to kiss him and making her lean back slightly in question, the smallest of frowns creasing her brow. "I need some spice, Shira. You haven't left any in my room for two nights."

She leaned back further, expression hardening. "You _what_?"

"You heard me. Do you have some or not?"

She pushed back with enough force that Luke had to brace to stop himself stumbling.

"You're unbelievable, you know that?!"

"Why, because I won't sit up and beg every time you click your fingers? I thought I'd already told you that that wasn't what this was. You ease my way and I'll ease yours—that was always the deal. Are you gonna give me the spice, or do I go elsewhere." He kept his voice level as he looked away. "Tell me now, so I have time to go and source it tonight."

"What, you think you can just go and wander around the mess halls of Kessler's Destroyer until you happen on someone who might have some?" She'd moved back to rest her hand to her hip, head tilted with mocking scorn.

"I need less than five minutes to rifle through the minds of half the crew onboard this ship. Easily a dozen people will have their own, or be dealing, in a ship this size. It's a big crew and these are long tours of duty. People get bored." He held silent for a second, giving her time to absorb all he'd said; that she'd been a convenience, not a necessity. Turning, he walked casually to the regulation desk at the far side of the room and opened the lower drawer to lift out the top three of a stash of small, pre-measured packets. Then he smiled just slightly, holding them pointedly up. "I hate to burst your bubble, but I got along just fine on a string of Star Destroyers long before you arrived."

"You son of a—"

"Hey, I came here and asked," he reminded. "I didn't need to. We're not enemies, Shira. We don't have to be."

She frowned, staring for long seconds as that calculating mind joined the dots… "Don't you dare walk out on me—not now."

"You think I'm walking out on you because Palpatine's back. I'm not."

"Oh, let me guess; some other redhead catching your eye?" Her chin lifted as he stifled his reaction. "Do you think I'm blind? Do you think she can get you a fraction as far as I can?"

"I think she doesn't view everything in those terms," Luke countered. "It's one of the things I like about her."

"I told you a long time ago, her allegiance is limited to just one person. Do you seriously think you can compete with that? Or are you the same?" She loosed a sharp laugh. "That's right, you are, aren't you? Happy to stand in his shadow."

"This, from the woman who's desperate just to speak with him."

She halted a fraction of a second, then forced a tentative smile again, voice softening as she tried a new angle. "And you can get me that, can't you? Can't you see—can't you see what we could become, together?"

"You don't need me for that, Shira—you don't need anyone. It would just be easier. Quicker. Not surprisingly, that doesn't sound particularly tempting from my point of view. I told you a long time ago, I'm not fuel to your power trip."

Her persuasive smile faltered, then recovered as she took a slow step forward. "You make it sound so clinical. And here I thought we had something special, something we could build on. You ease my way, and I'll ease yours…" She was close enough to lean up now, tilting her head invitingly. "Need a reminder of how?"

"Thanks for the spice." He turned for the door.

He was halfway there before she growled, "Don't. Don't do something you'll regret."

Luke loosed a low, hollow laugh as he walked out, shaking his head. "Way, way too late."

.

.

.

In his quarters the message waiting light was flashing on the comlink set into the regulation military officer's desk, a bright glint in the darkness. Sighing, he walked over and dropped the spice onto the desktop, then keyed to hear the message.

"Luke, it's Mara. Comm me when you get back, I'll come over."

He dragged the chair out to sit, leaning forward to massage his temples where a headache was starting to pound. Sat in the dark, he stared for a long time before, with a slow sigh, he reached out and blanked the message.

Stupid, really; he'd walked out on Shira because of Mara—because he didn't want to lie to her. And now he'd walk out on Mara, because he couldn't tell her the truth. Couldn't tell her that the man she idolized—the man she'd dedicated her entire life to serving—would snuff her out without a second thought, just to maintain the status-quo. To be sure, as he had without a second's hesitation in the past, that he held Luke's full attention.

Maybe he should have stayed with Shira, after all. It would have been the easier option. He wouldn't have been afraid for what Palpatine might do, if he found out. _When_. Shira could look after herself, he knew that. Most likely, she would have worked pretty damn hard to put the blame on Luke—and he would deserve it, for having let her. They were both playing the same games, both using the same tricks to the same ends; power plays, with a little physical recreation thrown in. There would have been no lasting repercussions, because the fact was that neither had any greater investment, and so would have simply accepted the veto and gone their separate ways. Nothing lost.

He couldn't have done it, of course, not really. Not because of Shira—not even because of Palpatine, though it would have been a dangerous day, when he found out. But if he did do it, he wouldn't be able to look Mara in the eye when she'd found out—and that would have truly hurt.

He'd liked to have said that he hadn't seen all this coming, but he had. Not this specifically—this particular downward spiral had taken even him by surprise—but if not this, it would have been something else. Maybe he was paying for his father's sins. Wasn't that what they believed, in some cultures?

Had he really thought that he could walk away from it all? That such minor events as the dissolution of government or the rise of system-spanning hostilities would actually have enabled him to step free of his old life, bury himself in insignificance at the edge of the galaxy and start again, no matter how unassumingly.

The trouble was, whether he was paying for his father's sins or not, he was still his father's son. And no matter how far he ran, in the end that always caught up with him.

.

.

.

.

.


	10. Chapter 10

.

.

 **CHAPTER TEN**

.

.

.

Mara glanced briefly to Luke where he sat at the conference table. He hadn't returned her comm last night-their first they'd all been together onboard the _Steadfast_. She'd sent a second comm after midnight telling him to come, no matter what the time…but he hadn't turned up at her quarters, as he often had at outrageous hours before…before Palpatine's return.

Even this morning there was still no contact from him. Instead she'd been woken early by a standard summons to this meeting. And when she'd arrived here, both Shira and Palpatine were already seated. Luke had arrived minutes later, and walked to a seat to the same side of the table as herself and Shira, but two chairs down from Mara, effectively preventing any private conversation.

He'd looked tired, dark circles beneath his eyes, his black-dyed hair and the white of his shirt—he wore no uniform jacket, as usual—draining him of color. By contrast to Palpatine, he seemed drained of life itself. Palpatine sat straight and alert, ocher eyes sharp, his long hair pulled to a neat tail at the nape of his neck. He wore a dark military-cut suit that Shira had apparently sourced for him somewhere onboard, though his distaste at having to do so was visible in that familiar curl of his lip, unsettling in its new visage.

It was still a shock to Mara, to see her Emperor this young. To see a man whom she had known only in his wizened state returned to his prime. He had always been dynamic and motivated, a force to be reckoned with, but mentally, not physically. Sat before her now was a man clearly basking in his rejuvenation. Having earned his second chance, he had no problem in grasping the opportunity with both eager hands—and that included regaining his power, as quickly and as completely as possible.

He watched attentively now as Luke spoke, voicing the bottom line on the year that Palpatine had been absent. The particulars Palpatine had already begun studying on various media, but facts were available anywhere; he had gathered the only ones he presently trusted together now for a more a specific view—that of how to regain what he had lost. Long, slim fingers steepled before his face in consideration as he listened attentively to Luke.

"The power has…" Luke hesitated and Mara too glanced down, unable to meet the Emperor's eye.

It was strange, that somehow it had been allowed to fall to Luke to tell the bad news-and he had. She had no reason to be fearful of her master, but his displeasure…no matter how tacit, she remembered of old how it could burn. She was embarrassingly aware that both she and Shira had silently held back in this first meeting, allowing Luke to take the lead and deliver the dire news, which he did immediately and candidly. It was as if—as if he…not enjoyed standing in the line of fire, but…was resigned to it. Needed it, somehow.

Still, even he kept his eyes down, not meeting Palpatine's piercing gaze. "The Empire's fractured. You've read the facts; the upheaval which followed the very public attack at Corsin was capitalized on by the Rebels to good effect. The Rim systems in particular were vulnerable, and the Rebels knew that. I don't have exact numbers, they're simply not available, but as an indication I'd say approximately seventy percent of systems in the Outer Rim now consider themselves independent of Imperial rule, and that figure is rising. Many of the more volatile sections of the Mid Rim Slice are now considered under threat. Under those circumstances and with no clear line of command, the Empire continues to fragment, with different factions vying for larger areas, but no-one strong enough to gain a significant advantage. Infighting, military and political, is rife." He shrugged. "Mostly military. The power was always centered there."

"Fractured how?"

Luke glanced to Mara, inviting her visible input now that the conversation had moved from the danger of initial delivery to the safer ground of detailed statistics.

She straightened in her seat, taking her cue. "There are four main factions, and around fourteen smaller ones, mostly divided by pre-existing oversector boundaries. Of the main players, the majority of the Core is held by Moff Tain and Moff Kiyoma. Coruscant, whilst in Moff Tain's sector, is widely viewed as being under the control of Admiral Ysanne Isard, the Head of the Ubiqtorate, who seems to work closely with Moff Tain. The Northern Dependencies are held by Moff Orada. The Rimward Colonies of the Southern Core—and so Fondor shipyards—are held by Moff Sekati. The remainder of the Inner and Mid Rim, as well as the Expansion Region, are broken up into smaller areas, each controlled by the Moff who held that sector prior to…" She hesitated, searching for a diplomatic turn of phrase. "prior to the Corsin incident. Those boundaries and alliances change almost monthly. The only remaining Outer Rim systems to be held by Imperial remnants are an alliance centered around Entralla, held by Grand Moff Kaine, and regions trail-wise of Galactic South, which are still held by Grand Moff Kessler. Both remain strongholds under Imperial control—"

"Which doesn't necessarily mean that they'd be amenable, if approached," Luke added without lifting his head.

"The second Death Star?" Palpatine prompted, eyes remaining on Mara.

"Remains in the Moddell sector in the Rim, and so under Imperial control with Grand Moff Kessler," she replied.

Palpatine's eyes twitched to Luke. "Why have you not already removed it to safer territory?"

"The situation wasn't sufficiently stable. Grand Moff Kessler has moved to his own agenda since Corsin, cementing his rule and eschewing any overtures to merge with other remnants. Having spoken with him, I know for a fact that he backed the Rhen Var mission only to gain the command codes to the second Death Star, with no intention of honoring any part of the agreement once he had them. With no way to force or guarantee his compliance as of yet, to simply hand over a complete set of activation codes would have been to hand over the Death Star itself."

Mara glanced to him in surprise. His voice was matter of fact, eyes on the datapad before him as if this was a premeditated plan on all their parts, though from her viewpoint to his side, she could see that the pad's screen contained nothing more than a partial sketch of a woman's face, an enigmatic smile on part-drawn lips, a thick plait of hair pinned high on her head. He flicked his nail across the screen to a clean page, manner coolly professional as he continued as if viewing the facts he recited.

"The amount of dependable manpower at our disposal meant that taking it by force wasn't yet practical, nor would we currently have the resources to protect, complete or maintain it, if we did. To our knowledge the hyperspace generators are still a few months from completion and obviously untried, further complicating its seizure. Hyperspace tugs are a possibility for its removal from Kessler's control, but that would have been dependent on securing an accord with Moff Sekati of the Fondor shipyards, which is only partially in place. Given our…" Luke paused to glance from the screen of his datapad to Palpatine for a measured second. "lack of knowledge as to the real function of the Rhen Var storehouse, to acquire control of the already complete Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ , also moored at Fondor and awaiting only a set of activation codes, seemed of more strategic worth. We could then negotiate with both Fondor and Kuat Shipyards with the intention of combining both facilities under a single accord, thus gaining us the manpower, the amenities, and the resources to complete and utilize the Death Star. To do that required negotiations on two fronts, as well as planning military action to actually acquire the Death Star, but it would have guaranteed that we would have held the facilities and the manpower to both move forward and deal with any resultant power struggle. Taking all that into account, I was unwilling to act without having secured those circumstances. Or to have it widely known that I held the means to do so."

It was a second before the implication beneath those final words sank in, making Mara turn fully to stare. Luke at least had the good grace to glance briefly to her, though nothing was readable in his face. To Mara's other side she heard Shira loose a slow, deliberate breath of realization as the air practically pulsed her irritation. For herself, Mara fought to conceal the ironic smile coming to her lips at the brief, rueful glance he'd given her.

… _I held the means to do so_.

He'd known the full access codes all along.

A memory sparked, of his reply when they'd first told him their plan: _'If I gave you the MA codes…then what? You think you're gonna just waltz in there one night and sneak it out?'_

Not 'If _we get hold of_ the codes', but 'If I gave you' _.._. 'If _I gave_ _you'_.

Had he been calculating a path, even then? ' _If I gave you'_ … Why hadn't she spotted that? She and Shira were active field agents, and each held partial code sets—of course Antilles, located on Coruscant and close to the Emperor, would hold a full set!

"This will all cease when I take the throne," Palpatine said vehemently, bringing Mara's eyes and thoughts back to him. "Order will be reinstated upon my return to Coruscant."

Mara glanced briefly to Luke where he sat, elbows resting on edge of the table, hands clasped together before his mouth, head tipped down. He didn't look up, though she knew he would have sensed her silent request.

"They won't accept you." He said it quietly, saving anyone else the unenviable task.

Palpatine turned on him. "I have no intention of _asking_ them. I want their obedience, not their permission."

"Their loyalty was to Palpatine," Luke said. "And he's dead."

Even having wanted him to explain, Mara stared, unable to believe his gall in saying it so bluntly-though his voice was calm, head still tipped down, so that when he finally looked to the Emperor, it was through bangs of dark-dyed hair.

"That's what they all believe," he murmured. "What they _know_."

"I will correct their misapprehension…as I did with you."

"We're different. We see past the physical."

Palpatine glared at Luke in silence…and after a few moments Luke looked down again, uneasy. Fuelled by the capitulation, Palpatine's lip curled.

"You think I am no more than the sum of my past reputation? Well?"

"… No, Master."

Mara felt her spine twitch at that; she always considered Palpatine in terms of that title herself, but this was the first time she'd heard Luke use it. He'd done so quietly and fittingly, but clearly that wasn't enough for Palpatine.

"Stand up."

She glanced briefly to Shira as Luke did so, his eyes remaining down. Something indefinable held his stance taut; a muted friction which hovered on the very edge of defiance, despite Palpatine's obvious anger.

"Do you doubt, perhaps, that I am capable of retaking power?"

"No, Master."

"…Is there something else you wish to say?"

Luke looked up…then away. "No, Master."

Palpatine continued to stare for an uncomfortably long time, in which Luke remained unnaturally still, not even his eyeline changing. In the end it was Mara who broke the moment when she moved uneasily, making the Emperor glance briefly to her.

"I will regain control within three months. I need no longer. There are those whom I placed in positions of power who knew of my abilities, and will understand what they are seeing, with my return. There are many more who believed the tenets of the Force and the Sith…more still who simply believed in _me_. More again who will yield because they comprehend what I can offer them—that I can regain for them all that they have lost. Those remaining who do not comply are, by definition, no longer entitled to positions of power and will be removed."

A brief silence held… then Luke spoke levelly, moving forward as if his reprimand had not happened. "If you want to return to Coruscant, you should do so in the _Executor_." His tone was neutral despite his dressing down, leaving Mara with the impression that though he argued, his commitment remained with his Master. "It's still in drydock at the Fondor Shipyards, awaiting a complete set of authorization codes. It would seem the obvious choice of ship in which the Emperor should return to his seat of power."

"I have no desire to return to the Core worlds until I have a sizeable military contingency at my disposal. This will not be allowed to devolve into civil war, when we have a greater enemy at our door—one who usurped me from power in the first place." Palpatine paused, seeming to consider. "However, such symbols of indisputable status and continuity would work to our advantage. Who holds Fondor Shipyards?"

"Moff Sekati. If you also intend to seize the Death Star I would…suggest," Luke stated carefully, "that once you have control of Sekati's sector we requisition additional Star Destroyers. When we arrive at Grand Moff Kessler's territory to take control of the Death Star it should be with a convincing presence. He may well prove…difficult."

"If he does, it will be briefly," Palpatine said decisively. "Moff Sekati…give me the facts?"

Luke glanced to Mara, again prompting her inclusion now that they were on safer ground. Taking the cue again, she straightened slightly.

"Moff Sekati took over from Moff Godal, who held the Tapani sector before…" again she hesitated; "before the Corsin incident."

Luke reached down to lift his datapad, using the action as an excuse to sit again as a raft of information regarding Moff Sekati flashed onto all the individual datapads laid on the long desk, surprising her; so despite his apparent disinterest, Luke had indeed been doing his homework. She remembered again her visits to her master on Coruscant, in her youth; remembered the boy in the shadows, silent and unassuming. So much so that she'd dismissed him entirely then, too…right up to the moment that they'd sparred.

Was that why Palpatine wouldn't let the smallest insubordination or ambiguity pass? There were risks inherent in an advocate who had been trained since childhood to sit quietly in the shadows, tutored in stealth and covert action.

Luke hesitated and glanced briefly to her, a question in his eyes, and she shook her head minutely, letting the moment pass. With the briefest pause, he picked up again, all business.

"Moff Sekati was previously attached to the Carida territories, and before that a lesser position in the Kuat sector, which of course holds the Kuat Shipyards. Her previous experience at Kuat was thought to be of value in overseeing Fondor, and those same contacts would have served to our advantage when we began negotiations to combine Kuat and Fondor's shipyard construction facilities and assets. She's a committed Imperial with whom we've already negotiated partial ties. I think she'll likely be amenable, now."

"Likely?" Palpatine prompted, tipping his head.

"It's an unprecedented situation," Luke said bluntly. "But I remember Moff Sekati. She was still operating out of Carida system when I attended the academy there. She's strong-willed and opinionated, but loyal. She'd see your…reappearance as a good thing, therefore she'll be receptive to it."

"Then the Fondor shipyards will have the distinction of becoming the first to acknowledge the return of their Emperor. But until I gain the _Executor_ , this Destroyer is to be completely secured. I want no word of my return to be disseminated until I am ready—none. Who commands it?"

"Captain Beyer is in command. He's loyal to Moff Kessler, whose fleet the _Steadfast_ is currently part of, but only because he's a career soldier and Moff Kessler is his superior. You may be able to persuade him." Luke glanced briefly to Mara, the barest hint of dry amusement in his voice. "A case of 'talk quietly but carry a big stick'."

Aware of the shared joke Mara stifled a smile, remembering having asked Luke if he couldn't manage the same occasionally, with Moff Kessler. Her brief flush of amusement dissipated beneath Palpatine's acid glare as he looked between them, and like Luke she found her head dipping in contrition—at what, she wasn't sure.

The taut silence lasted long seconds... then Palpatine's eyes twitched back to Luke. "Unacceptable. I want total control of what is now, effectively, the flagship of the Empire. You will go to the bridge, eliminate Captain Beyer, and take command of the _Steadfast_."

Luke twitched, straightening in his seat as his eyes lifted to Palpatine's. "Now?"

"Of course now. It was remiss of you to allow such a situation to continue even this far."

Mara felt her chest tighten slightly, shocked at the cool command and the criticism within it. Securing the _Steadfast_ was necessary given the situation, but…

Again Luke shifted beside her, uneasy. "As I said, Captain Beyer may be loyal if he knows the truth."

Palpatine's head tilted. "Are you _questioning_ my decision?"

Luke paused, choosing his words with care. "To keep him in power would be less suspicious than his sudden removal. If you want the _Steadfast_ to move freely for the present, then make no visible changes."

Shira stood, eager to make her mark. "I'll do it."

"No. Sit." Palpatine ground the command without even looking at her. "Luke Antilles will do as I have ordered him. Now."

"It's unnecessary," Luke remained in his seat, head down, jaw flexing. "How much longer do you intend to keep your presence silent, anyway?"

Mara stared at the table in front of her, amazed at his gall. Had he forgotten who he was arguing with? Visual appearance aside, this was Palpatine, and he had made a decision. He had passed his expectations out, and all that was left was for those about him to implicate them. To obey.

Palpatine remained seated, hands resting lightly on the desk, fingers linked, his whole demeanor that of inflexible expectation.

There would be reasons beyond the obvious for Palpatine's order, Mara knew—there always were. So why didn't Luke just obey? There would be more at play, subtler motives, he surely knew that. The moment could be diffused in a single second if he would just relent. She wanted to turn to loose a glare that would communicate all that, but caught herself, instead staring intently at the datapad before her as Shira let out a brief breath of derision at his continued noncompliance.

"He's not an enemy." Luke held quietly.

The Emperor's half-tilted head rightened slowly, something unsettlingly predatory about the measured movement as his voice took on a knowing tone. "You would prefer, perhaps, to bring Captain Beyer here to me, and to hold him whilst I reacquaint myself with my abilities? His fate is sealed…but its method of execution rests in your hands."

Silence. The air practically vibrated though, a pressure building which made Mara's temples pound as her heart thudded...

The cacophony of noise as Luke stood, chair wrenching backwards, made her jerk. He wheeled about to stride to the exit without another word. The door slid open before Palpatine deigned to speak again.

"Commander Antilles."

Luke paused without turning at Palpatine's voice, and the room remained silent and still, tension stretching…Finally Luke twisted about on his heel to face Palpatine, jaw locked, eyes hooded.

Palpatine held his stare, unfazed. "Before you go to the bridge, you will return to your quarters and retrieve your jacket. You are out of uniform, Commander. Whilst I have been absent standards have clearly lapsed; I will correct that in short measure. You are dismissed."

Mara's heart skipped as Luke stared, for fear that he'd come back with some ill-considered retort …but after tense seconds he brought his heels together and tipped his head in a curt military salute—and why could she see only cool cynicism in the act?

Then he turned and left without another word.

.

The door closed, and Palpatine slackened as he settled back into his seat, a self-congratulatory smile whisping across his lips. "As challenging as ever," he murmured. "And as predictable. Fortunately."

Shira let out a brief huff of distain. "He's not worth the effort, master."

Mara turned, unable to stop her lip from curling in disgust. Not because Shira's allegiance had so instantly and completely transferred to Palpatine—it was the right thing to do, given his return. But the raw ambition in her readiness not simply to disassociate herself from Luke, but to criticize and condemn him, was offensive.

Palpatine only twitched a brief, melancholy smile. "How little you understand."

Shira leaned forward, desire and desperation in her voice. "Train me instead."

Palpatine barely turned, utterly dismissive. "You think you can be all that he is? You think you can hold the same power?"

"Let me try! Give me the chance."

He turned to study her, amused now; indulgent. "Child, I deny you to protect you. He would take you apart, if you were perceived as a threat. He is Sith. You…you're nothing more than a feeble little shadow, if he notices you at all."

Mara was left to stare, uncertain at her master's tactics here, because his divisive claims surely had something in mind. Was it an indirect reprimand—a reminder of Shira's place, given her words—or was he actually _trying_ to set Shira against Luke? Because if so it was working, as Shira straightened, indignant.

"Yet I caught him. I held him here."

"You don't understand, child. You never _held_ him—not my Sith. He simply had no-where else he identified the necessity to be. If he had, then he would have left. You would not have stopped him—nobody would. I trained him myself." Palpatine paused, frowning. " _Caught_ him?"

It was Shira's turn to grin, chin rising. "He abandoned the Empire—absconded from his post the moment the Empire failed. He never came back after Corsin. It was me who worked to re-establish our credentials. Me who had to plan for the future, in your name. In your memory."

Golden eyes flicked briefly to Mara, and she looked down—not out of guilt; she had done nothing wrong, and if she knew that then so did her master. But Luke... Shira took a breath to speak, but Palpatine held out his hand to stop her, his eyes remaining on Mara. "Explain."

She took a long, slow breath to gather her thoughts, not wanting to condemn Luke, but knowing that Shira would call her on even the slightest lie or evasion. "It took almost two months for Shira and I to locate each other, as we were both working underc—"

"Explain about Antilles," Palpatine clarified tersely.

"Luke…it took us almost nine months to track him down. We had very little reliable information. He was constantly moving. He remained out in the Rim systems, where we had limited access."

"He dropped into obscurity," Shira added, quick to clarify. "He moved from planet to planet, changing identity every time. Buried himself in the underworld, gambling and trying to stay below the radar, not once coming to the Empire's aid. We had to use force, to even speak with him. He withheld the activation codes for the Death Star and the _Executor_ , slowing the operation by—"

"Forcing us to re-route back to Rv-9," Mara interjected. "If he'd given us the codes immediately, we would have bypassed the Rv-9 storehouse and the cloning facility entirely. And once we were there, only Luke could disable the specialized security, which enabled us to…" She slowed as those ocher eyes looked down into her soul. He knew what she was doing.

They held on her too long, making her shift uncomfortably…then he rose abruptly, his height unsettling, his physique intimidating. In all the time Mara had known him, his body had never been equal to his prodigious will or his capabilities. To see him in his prime now was inspiring…daunting, as it should be. And perhaps a touch menacing, even to her.

His eyes flicked to Shira as he turned to the door, his judgment on all she had said given as nothing more than passing comment. "Based on his reasoning today, it appears that if he withheld the codes, he was right to do so. You were free at any time to try to challenge him." His voice softened once more to enigmatic indulgence. "Yet you chose not to do so-to recognize instead that you should endeavor to channel that which you could not overcome. That you did so…it seems that in some things at least, you have learned that all things come to those who wait…and scheme."

.

.

.


	11. Chapter 11

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

.

.

The quiet tap on her door made Mara frown. Rising, she walked quickly over to hit the release.

Luke leaned against the frame, head down. He wore his uniform jacket, undone—the first time she'd ever seen him wear it onboard the _Steadfast_. It had been two hours since he'd stormed out of the meeting—the _audience_ —with the Emperor.

"Did you…?"

"Beyer's dead," he said simply. "So's his first officer, Tatton."

She sensed the inward drag of the Force, as if he was searching to lock the memory away. Was that why he was reluctant to ever utilize the Force—because of what Palpatine asked of him?

"You did the right—"

"Don't. Don't even… You wanted to know; now you do. He's dead. I did as I was ordered. I don't want to talk about it again."

"Then why are you here?" It wasn't like they'd seen each other in the last few days. In fact had she not known better, she'd have thought he was purposely avoiding her.

"Because you also want an explanation about the command codes."

"I don't need it right now."

"Well right now's when I'm handing it out, so ask."

"You don't—"

"Ask."

He didn't want sympathy; she understood that. She loathed it herself, in any situation. He wanted to explain himself. He always did, she'd noticed—was always willing to answer for his actions. They'd all been trained to do that; to take responsibility for their choices. To answer for them. Then again, they'd all been trained never to challenge an order—not from Palpatine.

Mara blinked…then stepped back into her quarters, allowing him to follow before she turned. "When did he give you the codes?"

"About two years ago. He made me memorize them."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"So you know the codes to the _Executor_ too?"

"Yes."

"So Rhen Var was just a huge waste of time?"

He shook his head briefly, as if he'd been preparing for this. "No. It was never that. It would have—"

"Did you know the cloning facility was there? Because you could have simply told us. We would have—"

"Of course I didn't know. I told you that."

"You told me you didn't have the command codes," she said pointedly.

"No I didn't. You _assumed_."

"Oh don't give me that!" A little of her compassion gave way to indignation, and his own voice lifted in response.

"You assumed."

"And you let us! Why?"

"Because I couldn't be bothered trying to argue with Shira," Luke said tiredly. "The plan in place was hers. She would have defended it based solely on that—you know what she's like."

"So the fact that you didn't _agree_ with the plan," Mara corrected. "was, in your opinion, sufficient grounds to withhold information vital to the greater mission."

"The operation as it stood was flawed."

"We would have had the _Executor_!"

"Who would have been crewing it? Moff Sekati's men? Because Shira's plan dictated that you eventually cross her, too—remember that. You have, what—the twenty genuinely reliable Special Ops soldiers who came into the bay of the _Steadfast_ to stop me, when I first decided to go walkabout? I'm guessing that's why they were the only ones brought into the actual bay I was in. Let's say forty, to be optimistic—shift changes, men elsewhere, that kind of thing. Forty; that's it. Even if you'd had sufficient reliable, experienced command officers available to control the _Executor_ and _they_ somehow managed to muster enough high-level crew loyal to them among Sekati's men in order to guarantee your control of the _Executor_ , did you have a _second_ reliable crew just hanging around, ready to operate the Death Star when you seized it? Assuming, of course, that you could have removed Kessler's crew cleanly, whilst holding at bay any external offensive force he threw at you at the same time, when he realized what you were doing. All with forty reliable soldiers. And please, don't try to claim you could have seized it without Kessler realizing."

"If we'd had the _Executor_ , it would have kept Kessler in line, and gained us access to the Death Star. Sekati's troops would have been the ones manning the _Executor_."

"And when you crossed Sekati, in taking the Death Star to Kuat, instead of Sekati's facilities at Fondor? Accompanied there by _her_ Super Star Destroyer, no less—or did you intend to just…loose it on the way, somehow? You would have effectively alienated two of the larger Imperial remnants in a matter of weeks. And how reliable do you think you would have seemed to the remainder, when you needed to negotiate more collaborations? How thin would those few reliable men have been, at that point? And speaking of alliances, I'd've put credits on Moff Sekati turning up in Moff Kessler's territory within a week, to talk about their sudden shared interest in a common enemy who thinks they can just waltz off with military superstructures and expect no retaliation."

He shook his head, lowering his voice, both apologetic and unyielding in the same breath. "You would have alienated too many big players—which is no surprise, because it was Shira's plan and that's how Shira's mind works; she takes down, she doesn't build. There was nothing wrong with making a career out of that when she had the whole of the unified Empire at her back—it's a niche position, but I'll bet she was hellishly good at getting into a whole raft of quiet little deals and blowing them apart, on Palpatine's command. But you don't have the _numbers_ any more," Luke repeated emphatically. "You needed a reputation and you needed resources, to hold anything together. With your own men controlling Sekati's forces you might just've had the firepower to hold against Moff Kessler in a straight battle, but not to take anything from him by force at the same time—not in your own name. That requires numbers. Spare crew, expendable bodies, trained technical specialists; enough to allow for casualties _and_ for re-crewing of the Death Star. You needed somewhere to move it to, a way to actually move it. You needed funding and facilities to complete it—a huge commitment of assets, to guard it whilst you did so. Kuat might just possibly have held against Sekati, had you taken it there, but Sekati _and_ Kessler? Not only was it risky, it was a waste of assets which would have to be expended on doing so."

He paused, looking to her, head tilted to get him down to her height whilst he leaned against the edge of the standard-issue desk to one side of her room, the heels of his hands against its edge, leaving himself undefended—making every possible subliminal effort to put his case forward without antagonism. She should know; she'd been taught the exact same set of tricks.

The annoying thing was, they worked. Mara lifted her head a fraction, but didn't speak, letting him continue with a slight shake of his head.

"Even if Shira had backed down and agreed to change the plan—if you had negotiated an alliance in advance between Fondor and Kuat, to hold Kessler at bay—you still needed sufficient capital to get the Death Star online. You needed materials, specialists."

"Which Fondor and Kuat would have provided," Mara interjected.

"On their terms," Luke said quietly. "You were asking them not just to get the Death Star operational, but to defend it from Kessler, when he finally came to get it back—which he would; you know what his ego's like. You'd got the Death Star to Kuat, yes…but there was nothing in place once it was there, to keep you in the loop. You'd effectively handed it off from one Moff to another."

"We had an agreement."

"Yeah, there were a lot of those flying around, in this plan."

"It was workable."

"No, you wanted it to work. There's a difference. What you _actually_ needed to do was remove Kessler entirely at the same time that you commandeered the Death Star, to pre-empt any offensive retaliation—which would have been my choice of tactic, once we had Fondor _and_ Kuat onboard. That would have enabled us take over Kessler's territories and assets entirely, using soldiers made available to us through that accord. The _Executor_ stays with us, the Death Star goes to Kuat with limited command codes so we still have some control there, and Fondor gets the full codes to activate the _Executor's_ sister-ship, once it's complete. Everyone's in. Everyone's equal; everyone's pot-committed. It would have required more planning, more time, up front, to ensure that alliance between Fondor and Kuat. Shira's plan wasted effort on defense—on reactive action—when it should have been proactive, in removing the threat before it ever had time or a reason to develop. But Shira wouldn't have entertained that because it would have been slower and it would have had fewer up-front rewards."

"You could have told me all this."

"I would have…eventually."

She straightened, scowling as a thought occurred. "Eventually _when_ , exactly? When you thought you'd wrapped me around your little finger?"

"No—and don't insult either me or yourself by asking that. I would have waited until we'd completed the Rhen Var mission—run a single operation like a solid, mutually dependent unit. Proved to ourselves that we could."

"Put a lot of thought into this on the quiet, haven't you?"

He glanced down. "I tend to do that when my neck's on the line…and yours."

Mara felt her lip twitch at the last, though he didn't look to her. Even that, for him, was a huge admission.

And speaking of admissions, what he _hadn't_ done during in the meeting with Palpatine, was to implicate she or Shira in what he'd considered a flawed plan, Mara realized. He hadn't mentioned any other plan at all—only the one which he knew would satisfy Palpatine.

Yet the moment he'd gone, Shira had been all too eager to list Luke's failings over the last year—and Mara had let her. Had practically…if not actually contributed, then at least confirmed them. She felt a pang of guilt wrench at her as Luke continued in quiet, level tones, as if stating the obvious.

"To remove Kessler would have needed an organized line of attack; allies, the backing of neighboring sectors to stop them forming a pincer to trap us in hostile territory. We would have needed resources and numbers-again, that means we would have needed Fondor _and_ Kuat behind us…do you want me to go on?"

"It was all possible."

"Yes, it was— _if_ Rhen Var was successful. Regaining a full set of command codes would be vital to any Moff's concept of a long-term strategy, but to date none have managed it. It was absolutely the right mission to stake your reputations on in front of Moff Sekati. A successful outcome where _everyone_ else has failed would have gained you kudos, it would have gained you legitimacy. Even with Sekati's Fondor shipyards onboard, you could still have negotiated openly with Kuat, based on that success. To simply be _given_ the codes by a third party partway through your mission would have gained you none of that. We needed to be conceived of as a viable, effective unit."

She stared, uncertain whether to believe, and he sighed, glancing down. "Okay, you want the whole truth? I didn't tell you in the beginning because I didn't trust you—either of you." He lifted his hands as Mara took a breath to object. "Hey, you appeared out of nowhere, shot me, then doped me up with strychnine! What would've been going through _your_ head?"

"I didn't shoot you. Shira did."

"Uh, I think you _tried_ ," Luke corrected dryly, leaning back slightly where he perched on the edge of the desk. "I caught the bolt with my lightsaber, after which you jumped me and kicked me in the jaw. Twice."

A brief smile twitched her lip again, staying a little longer this time. "Oh yeah. That hurt?"

"Not as much as getting shot at point-blank range and then doped up with strychnine, no." He tilted his head, a tentative smile making him seem his age, for once. "If I stuck around, it sure as hell wasn't for Shira Brie."

Mollified, Mara let a loose grin take her. "I've seen you look at her."

"Not the way I look at you." He stood, the action taking him a subtle step forward, head still tilted to her level.

"And how do you look at me?"

Another step. "From as close as possible."

"Then you're not nearly close enough."

His smile was genuine now, reaching those dark-dyed eyes. She couldn't imagine him with blue eyes, somehow. They would be too soft, too temperate. She reached up to finger through his hair, and he leaned back slightly, then caught himself and stilled, allowing her close though she'd already stopped, for fear of making him back away.

"When does the color wear off?"

"I dunno. Another month maybe, for the pigmentation drugs to work their way out of my system. Why?"

"Curious, I suppose."

"I hate to disappoint you, but I look pretty much the same."

"That's not a disappointment."

Her hand lowered just slightly from where it hovered over his hair without touching, and again he tilted away just faintly, without thinking.

Mara frowned, eyes searching his. "You don't like being touched much, do you?"

He leaned forwards to kiss her, the brief intensity seeming to pull every fiber of her entire body into alignment, seeking greater sensation. When he pulled away his brief jolt at that same twist within the Force was barely perceptible, hidden entirely by the time his indulgent eyes met hers.

"That was on your terms," Mara said, weighing his actions as she spoke. "If it's on your terms, you can handle it. It's if you didn't initiate the contact that you do everything short of shy back."

"Actually, I used to always...well—"

"Lash out," she provided.

He leaned back a fraction, and she shrugged as she continued. "You do the same thing verbally all the time, if you think someone's getting too close. What I don't know is why."

Those dark-dyed eyes lowered to a scowl, and for a brief moment Mara thought that her straight-out honesty had actually shocked him into opening up just a fraction…then the lopsided grin he used as a shield fell into place, and he gave a brief, breathy laugh. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that…" He paused, taking her hand in his to press it to his jawline. "I…don't want it to be that way with you."

Mara smiled, trailing her fingers back through his dark hair. "Well then I'd say practice is the key. Close your eyes."

Now he did lean back a fraction. "What?"

"Close your eyes. It's a trust exercise. Didn't you do those in training?"

His smile twitched uncertainly somewhere between tolerance and unease as he closed his eyes, eyelids quivering against the need to lift again with someone so near. "No. I read about them bu—"

He broke off as her lips touched his neck, eliciting a brief breath in as he twitched away then consciously stopped himself in the same moment. Gently pushing his collar aside, Mara kissed a line down the pulse of his throat, her fingers trailing to the fasteners of his shirt.

"I don't remember this one," His voice was hoarse and throaty, teasing and teased. As he spoke his hand lifted to slip about the back of her neck and tilt her chin to him, and she allowed a brief, heated kiss, then pulled away.

"Hands behind your back, Antilles. You don't get to control this. You're just gonna have to kick back and embrace the unexpected. And close your eyes again. My terms, not yours. Think you can handle that?"

Standing on tip-toe, she leaned up to kiss his eyes closed, feeling soft lashes flicker against the curve of her lower lip.

She'd slipped her hand beneath his shirt as she spoke, fingers trailing up warm skin which twitched to her touch as she mapped the textural changes across the tattoo on his chest, registering the thud of a flesh and blood heart beneath the black-inked image of the same—and he didn't pull away. It thrilled her, in some twisted way, to think that no-one but her would be allowed this; this primal twist of desire and trust.

 _Mara—_

He didn't speak the word; she didn't hear it. It formed, complete, in the very center of her mind and in the deepest hollow within her body, making her heart flutter wildly for long moments, the raw, complicated rush of physical, mental and emotional need tumbling through her and catching in her throat.

She raised her head, and his arms came about her, crushing her close to—

 _Something_ ; her attention flickered, as did his.

Only now, did she become aware of the military-issue comlink within the breast pocket of his jacket as it repeated its harsh buzz for attention.

She smiled slightly as he cursed under his breath, but with humor. Amused as she was at the timing he yanked it free, still grinning as he looked down to identify the caller—

And the change was instantaneous. Profound enough that his whole demeanor altered in the space of a single second. His face fell straight, his shoulders stiffened, his chest tensed. He stepped quickly back, straightening as he withdrew, both physically and mentally.

"I have to go," he husked. "I shouldn't have come at all."

"Wait, Luke—" He'd moved so quickly that he was already almost beyond her reach, leaving her to snatch at his sleeve when he didn't slow. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Nothing's going on."

She hesitated, already knowing the answer to her next question. It was written in his body language; in his eyes, which wouldn't meet hers. But she had to hear him say it. To hear his reason. "When will you be back?"

His gaze flicked to the door. "I shouldn't be here in the first place."

She felt angry, slighted, confused. "You're not coming back, are you?"

She wasn't talking about tonight—neither of them were.

For a second something raw and wounded showed in his eyes. It vibrated through the Force in a brief, bright flare whose intensity burned…then it was gone, locked down and hidden away with iron discipline. He didn't want this—he didn't, she could feel it.

"Come to our hiding-place," she said quickly. "Meet me there and—"

He straightened as she spoke, shaking his head as he turned away. "I can't—not tonight. I have to go."

Pulling free he refastened his jacket as he reached the door, straight and stiff again, every inch the officer. Every inch the Emperor's advocate.

.

.

.

.

The sumptuous quarters which had been painstakingly fitted onboard the _Steadfast_ two years ago for a single journey that Palpatine had undertaken between Coruscant and Velusia—the same quarters which Luke had woken in over Rishi—were now in use once more. Palpatine sat to the wide, polished desk at the far side of the extravagant receiving room, a run of floor-to-ceiling viewports behind him displaying the angled hull of the massive Star Destroyer in all its bristling, monumental glory. It was a view calculated to make an impact within a room intended to impress, onboard a ship designed to awe. Within this setting, the reincarnated Emperor was visibly at home.

Despite Luke's return to the fold, it had been a while since he'd stood in a room like this—a relic of the dead past. Only not quite so. Like its inhabitant, it was enjoying an unexpected new lease of life.

Luke waited, stood to loose attention before the vast desk whilst Palpatine sat, eyes and attention on the datapad he was reading. There had been no explanation of why he'd been summoned, as of yet. At the entrance he'd paused, reflecting on how strange it was to have no-one guarding access…and then realized, unsettled, that it was his task to organize such things, now.

The door had slid open on his thoughts, and he'd walked without hesitation into the chamber where his Master sat. Despite summoning him Palpatine had not looked up, but remained still, eyes on one of the myriad of datapads scattered across his polished desk displaying military bulletins or newscasts of the past year's upheavals.

So Luke had stood waiting, forcing his mind calm in a manner he'd not had to do for almost a year.

Almost a year…

 _Almost_ ; that word circled, latching onto so many thoughts; almost forgotten this. Almost been free of it all. Almost…almost had Mara. He closed his eyes briefly as his head dropped.

"You fidget like a child." It was the strangest thing; despite the unignorable changes to the body of the man sat before Luke, that voice remained tone-perfect. The same disdainful growl of condescension and arrogance. "Once you would have stood half a day in dutiful attendance—now, a few minutes are onerous."

Luke looked down in silence, jaw flexing. The Emperor let the silence hang for a long time before adding, "I have read the…failings which wreaked havoc across my Empire in my absence. I am surrounded by incompetence and inadequacy." He threw the datapad onto the table, and Luke tensed but kept his gaze down.

"How many Star Destroyers were lost, whilst I was gone?"

"Seventeen destroyed, twelve in Rebel hands."

"Seventeen!" Palpatine rose quickly, hands to the polished desk as he leaned forward. "How did you let that happen?"

"Me? I wasn't even here."

"Precisely!" Palpatine swung his arm in a wide arc without looking, launching the contents of the desk across the room in a fit of fast temper, voice rising. "My advocate, my champion—my greatest work—gone! Disappeared! Moping in the mud, in the back of beyond. You should have been here, backing a clear successor. It was what I raised you for!"

"I didn't—" Luke broke off, then said it anyway, looking aside. "I didn't _care_. My loyalty was to you, not the Empire, you always knew that. Once you were dead…" He lowered his eyes, voice quieting. "I didn't care what happened to it."

He'd expected an outburst, an enraged accusation. Instead, Palpatine's expression lifted as he stepped about his edge of the desk to take Luke's face in his hands, voice softening. "Child…how do you know just exactly what I would wish to hear?"

Luke leaned away from that subtle inward pull as Palpatine stared, expectant, those pale yellow eyes clear and set in taut unlined skin, yet still unnervingly familiar.

"Because…because that's what you always taught me."

A brief, breathless exclamation of sublime delight escaped Palpatine, and in that moment he looked so completely like the Master Luke had known of old. The subtle pressure of his now-youthful hands increased as he forcibly tipped Luke's head forward, pulling him in close against his will to lay a contented kiss to his forehead, cold and dry, and as deeply unsettling now as it had ever been from the old man of Luke's youth.

"You squandered your abilities," Palpatine whispered, indulgent.

Luke pulled back to put some distance between them. "Don't act like you care. About me, my abilities or the Empire."

Palpatine tilted his head. "I care a great deal about all three—they are all mine."

"You didn't give a damn what happened once you were gone. None of it mattered if you weren't there to reap the benefits."

A slow smile crept across those lips, and Luke knew what he'd revealed.

"Poor abandoned child. You were lost without me, I understand that."

"I wasn't lost."

"And angry, because I left you."

Luke shook his head, taking another step back. He didn't want this discussion; knew all too well where it would lead, and those wounds were still too raw. How had it come to this, already? Too much was familiar here; old habits involuntarily revisited, old games which still worked, despite his best efforts. He turned quickly, intending to leave despite not having been dismissed.

He was almost to the door when Palpatine's quiet voice stopped him, the question and the memories it evoked strong enough to push the air from Luke's lungs, even now.

"Did you duel him—your father? Did you answer my command, at Corsin?"

Luke looked down, guilt rushing through him. "I tried to stop him…"

It was barely a murmur, laden with remorse. His heart beat loud in his ears. He felt lightheaded; dizzy. Had to summon the Force to ground himself. It wrapped thickly about him, its intensity unfamiliar, its strength overwhelming, a flush of vehemence which spurred him on, voice rising. "Because of you, I turned on my own father."

Palpatine smiled divisively. "You are a good and loyal advo—"

"I should have been a good and loyal son!"

"To what end, child? What would that have gained you? He would never have—"

"I know that, I'm not a child! You took that away too, remember?! You took everything from me!"

He was shouting, yelling to his Master's face...and Palpatine was allowing it. Permitting this momentary vent of emotion… Some distant, rational part of Luke's mind still had the logic to wonder, for what ends? Did it need to be given vent, this clearing of the air? Did Palpatine know that…or did he need something else? Was he pushing the argument to some deeper agenda?

"Your father made his own choices, long before you were born. I protected you from them."

"How? By turning us against each other?"

That head tilted in mock sympathy, the action if not the face deeply familiar, his voice a perfect echo from the past. "You always had such a fundamental flaw, child. I knew—I knew when I looked into the eyes of a seven year old boy—that it had already been sown and allowed to fester by those who could not possibly understand what you were. I tried…I tried so hard to cure you of it. But I can see that I failed you. I allowed you to fail yourself. I still do."

 _There…_ Luke fell silent, knowing now where this was going—why the summons had arrived precisely when it did. Knowing exactly where Palpatine was seeking to take this as he continued, ocher eyes full of pity.

"I tried to be that strength _for_ you…but look how low it brought you, the moment that I was gone. The moment you lost the clarity that I provided."

"You isolated me so you could control me."

"No," Palpatine held gently. "So that you could control yourself. So that you would not destroy yourself. You have such power, child…but without me you will always turn it inwards, on yourself. Do you understand—do you not see that, in everything you do? You are different from all others. On every possible level you are different, and you know it. You cannot stand among them any more than a flame can safely exist in a forest. Eventually you will burn everything close to you, whether you mean to or not. It is in your nature."

His voice was soft, but very sure, as he continued. "Only I can withstand such a heat, because I am of the same element, the same raw power. Only with me are you rendered safe. We are meant to be together, you and I. Two flames which flicker and flare within a galaxy of dull and barren emptiness. Only fire can withstand fire. You think I isolate you—I do not. I contain you, for your own good. I channel you, for the good of all. And deep down you understand that…which is why you tried to douse that flame, when you found yourself alone. But you cannot diminish what comprises every atom of your being, and like insects to the flame lesser creatures will always seek you out, drawn, mesmerized, to their own destruction. The Force itself knows that, and so brought us together. Despite every effort of the Jedi Order and the Old Republic, it still brought us together. Without me, you are the flame in the forest. You are elemental—death and destruction, a black heart at your core."

Luke blenched, clenched hand going to his chest, and Palpatine stepped slowly forward to reach out, knuckles running gently down Luke's cheek. "I only ever contain you for your own sanity, you know that now. Trust me in this. Trust the Force, which has brought us together yet again. Because of who you are, you can only ever be a harbinger of death and destruction…but I can turn that black heart to a noble end."

"Your ends," Luke said in weak defense. "With your word as law."

Palpatine smiled, indulgent. "And how far has the galaxy fallen in just one year, without that? Was deferring to your Emperor's will so terrible, given the alternative?"

Luke glanced down, his argument faltering.

"My brave, faithful little soldier," Palpatine murmured. "The only one loyal enough to be willing to venture into the void again and again, to track my voice in the abyss."

"The only one capable of hearing," Luke dismissed, uneasy at such praise.

"The one who truly needed to hear," Palpatine corrected…

And in that moment, Luke knew the truth of it.

"Don't ever doubt your place, child," Palpatine said at last, with absolute certainty. "It is here, with me. All that you hope, and all that you hate, and all that you seek to protect…all of that is accomplished here, and here alone."

.

.

.

.

.

.

"In terms of the Rebels, the most important measure we can take in anticipation of future combat, is to limit their use of ex-Imperial Star Destroyers," Luke said, all business.

They sat again around the large polished table in the conference room to the rear of the _Steadfast's_ bridge, this morning's tactical meeting playing out. "The twelve stolen Destroyers in their control will make any battle unpredictable. Whilst it's easy to single out a Star Destroyer as Imperial or Rebel, the multiple smaller ships and snub fighters which would have been onboard will be more difficult to ID in the heat of an ongoing battle…or if they're attempting to infiltrate any number of Imperial facilities."

"We need to put an across-the-board system in place," Mara agreed, without meeting his eye. They hadn't spoken since he'd refused to meet her after the comm ordering him to Palpatine's presence last night, the timing of the summons too close to be a coincidence for Luke's taste—a fact which had been borne out by Palpatine's consequent warning.

An unnecessary one, in point of fact. It wasn't that hard to keep even Mara at bay; she simmered with unspoken resentment this morning.

But like him she remained, as ever, the consummate professional, eyes on her datapad as she spoke. "Intel needs to be collated which identifies all Destroyers lost, as well as their assets and resources. Everything needs to be cross-referenced, so that any attempt at infiltration could be ID'd immediately."

Such information should have been disseminated throughout the fleet automatically—would have been, before Corsin. Now, they didn't even seem to have the means to identify their losses, let alone recognize them after the fact, Luke knew. "All of which takes us back to the need to unite disparate Imperial factions, as quickly as possible."

Palpatine nodded. "That will be our priority, in the short term. I will have an effective fleet by the end of the month."

No-one batted an eyelid; already, it had ceased to seem unrealistic. What seemed illusory now, was the year which Luke had been away. He half-expected to round a corner and see his father's intimidating bulk striding towards him, the rasp of his life support echoing down military-gray corridors.

He stared at the datapad in front of him without seeing, thoughts beginning to stray. He'd had little sleep last night, falling back on spice and fitful drifting, as he had so often on Coruscant. How long before they were back there? How long before he stood in the still silence of the Red Room once again, wrapped about by the suffocating blanket of his old life?

The silence dragged him back to the moment, and he realized that Palpatine's eyes were on him, expectant. With too much spice still leeching through his system, he couldn't even call on the Force to recall the part-heard question.

It was Mara who came to his aid, despite her anger at him. "I'd agree that to cut off the Rebels' line of maintenance supplies for the Destroyers would be the most effective action, at present. It'll achieve maximum damage for minimum tactical outlay."

It was a prompt, and Luke grabbed at it. "Sending in small undercover strike teams to destroy any military ordnance supply factories or construction shipyards in the Rim systems—even small parts manufacturers—would have effect quite quickly, once hostilities commence. Military ordnance has only ever been stockpiled in the Core systems, so they're likely already having trouble sourcing parts for maintenance, and that will be amplified when centralized control is reinstated. Repair ordnance in the Colonies and the Rim will dry up pretty quickly, and we can intensify that by recalling any stores close to Rebel-held systems before hostilities start, to avoid supply raids. If we also target Rim system manufacturers carefully, now, with attention paid to making it seem accidental in nature, we may achieve several successful hits before the pattern is even recognized."

Palpatine stared without speaking, as Luke kept his eyes on the datapad in front of him, where a half-drawn sketch of his father's menacing mask had been abandoned. The silence stretched, interminable, awaiting acknowledgment…

Finally Luke looked up into an expression that was completely familiar, set within an unsettlingly youthful face. But even that was becoming customary, now. The hypercritical old Master whom Luke remembered was being gradually replaced by the equally demanding man in his prime, who glared with such scornful disdain. It was only when Luke looked away for some time, or listened only to his Master's voice, that the change was shocking once more.

But if he needed reassurance that it was indeed his Master's mind which animated a clone's body, then Palpatine could still be relied on to voice intentions which were the embodiment of ruthless malice.

"That's not enough. Assassination squads will also be launched, to target anyone outside of present Imperial territory who has betrayed my Empire, yet remains in a position of influence. Anyone who has defected, informed, supplied, or collaborated, starting in the Arkanis and Abrion sectors. Any ex-Imperial governor who has retained power on Rebel-run worlds is to be eliminated with extreme prejudice, to warn others."

"That...would…theoretically be possible." Luke hesitated, choosing his words. "Though perhaps not tactically significant, at this time. The outlay in manpower and resources—"

"Any use of resources that I consider to be warranted, is," Palpatine said decisively. "There are larger issues at stake, including the vulnerable locations of both the Death Star and the Rhen Var storehouse. I will give those who stand against me no quarter, be they Rebel or Imperial. There is no excuse, and there is no clemency. Ever."

"You said yourself that we need to concentrate efforts right now on consolidating support. This is—"

"If you have too delicate a constitution to execute the task that I have given you, then there are others all too ready to step into that privileged position," Palpatine growled.

Every time; every time, he pushed. The muted persuasions of their meeting just last night had been typically cast aside, but Luke was too used to these tricks of contradictory behavior to be set off-balance by them now. "It has nothing to do with that. I've done things for you that others would balk at. My entire life has been to bow my head and comply."

"Really?" Palpatine's chin twitched at Luke's final words, however quietly delivered. "Then I am confused as to who exactly returned to the _Conqueror's_ Bridge at Corsin, when I had specifically sent you to slay him?"

"If you'd told me the truth in the first place, perhaps I would have been better armed. Whatever happened that day was your own transgressions thrown back at you."

Mara moved beside Luke, her head tilting in silent censure to the corner of his vision—and she was right; he knew that. But since Palpatine had very pointedly chosen to tell him nothing of what had happened at Corsin, he wouldn't have divisive half-truths dredged up and thrown in his face now.

Palpatine straightened, eyes aglow. "Let it not be said that I repeat such misjudgement, in giving another key task to the same sentimental delinquent." His uncompromising gaze snapped away. "Lieutenant Brie, the last time that Commander Antilles was found wanting, you were eager to step into the breach—is that still the case?"

Shira stood, sensing her moment. "Always, Excellency."

"Then you are hereby placed in charge of all strategic operations, in both enemy and home territories. In order to fulfill that requirement, you may consider yourself the acting Director of Operations of Ubiqtorate and Intelligence Divisions. Your first charge is to work towards the goals I have stated today, and extrapolate them to their natural and wide-ranging conclusion. Ultimately any Moff, governor or bureaucrat still operating in Imperial territory who does not immediately relinquish all control and confirm his allegiance upon demand is to be considered an enemy of the state, and marked for termination as we expand."

Luke looked down as Palpatine spoke, clenching his jaw, though Shira didn't even flinch.

"Exactly as you wish, Excellency."

Palpatine's voice softened a fraction. "Loyalty should always be recognized, and I am confident that you will execute all that you are commanded with pride."

She straightened, practically preening. "I'm honored, Excellency. I won't let you down."

Palpatine nodded slowly. "Then I believe that this meeting has come to its natural conclusion. Lieutenant Jade, I have not forgotten your devotion or your loyalty. I have need for your unique talents elsewhere, in due course. For now, all that I intend is in hand." He rose as he finished speaking, effectively stalling any further discussion, and turned and left without once making eye contact with Luke.

If he thought that such disregard would sting however, he was mistaken; it was par for the course, Luke reflected dryly, gathering his datapads and setting for the door. Mara glanced to him, but didn't speak as she too made to leave the briefing room behind Shira—but then what could she say that he didn't already know?

Stung by denunciations both vociferous and pointedly silent, he tipped his head as she passed to murmur quietly, "Still proud to wear that uniform?"

Wanting to hear neither an answer nor validations, he strode past her to move closer to Shira, knowing Mara wouldn't follow. Even before her promotion today, Palpatine's return had rendered Shira's collaboration with Mara obsolete, and that had also meant the end of she and Mara's convenient partnership, as far as Shira was concerned—a fact that Mara hadn't failed to recognize. It was nothing obvious of course, no outright antagonism on either's part, just a cooling of their interactions to a strictly professional level. Maybe they had the right idea.

In a strange sort of way he felt more comfortable with Shira—or at the very least understood her, having met so many other ambitious and committed career climbers on Coruscant. The halls of the Imperial palace had been thickly lined with their type, as he'd been growing up. He wondered briefly how she saw the rest of the galaxy, when she noticed them at all; whether they all looked like stepping stones of varying heights, or perhaps had a set of figures floating over their heads, quantifying their usefulness and ease of exploitation…

She practically vibrated satisfaction now, as she turned to him. "Come to congratulate me? Though in fact, considering my new rank, perhaps you should salute me."

Luke ground his jaw; maybe this hadn't been the ideal way to avoid Mara. "Yeah, because you know how good I am with my supposed superiors," he growled. "Ask Kessler. And I hate to burst your bubble, but at present it's a theoretical title, anyway."

She lifted an eyebrow gamely and he twitched a brief smile as he continued. "The official Ubiqtorate HQ remains based in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant—along with its pre-existing Director of Operations. Which means that until Palpatine retakes Coruscant, you're a paper title."

It was an old saying, a derogatory epithet given by real soldiers to those honorary high-ups who somehow had medals on their chest without ever having stood on a battlefield.

If it bothered Shira she didn't let it show, seeming more caught up in playing the game than bothering to acknowledge his actual insults. "And when we do take Coruscant—what then?"

"Feel free to ask me again. I still won't salute, but at least you'll be genuinely entitled to ask."

"Hn, that might necessitate reprimand. Interesting. I may need to get personally involved with your…punishment."

It was Luke's turn to raise his eyebrows in a brief, sideward glance of dry disinterest.

"Have fun with the present Director of the Ubiqtorate, on Coruscant," he said levelly. "I'm sure she'll be eager to meet the woman who thinks she can just take over her position. You know she shot her own father, right?"

"Guns," Shira dismissed. "Archaic weapons for primitive minds. You could kill her before she'd drawn it clear of its holster, without moving a muscle. You never did get round to teaching me to do the same."

"And why would I choose to do that?"

"Oh, come on. We make a good team when we actually work together."

"As opposed to…?" Luke prompted without turning. "Oh wait, you mean as opposed to eagerly trying to drop me in it with Palpatine the moment I left the room yesterday—that _is_ the contrast you were going for, right?"

Shira barely broke stride. "Let me guess, Jade tittle-tattling to score some points?"

"No, Palpatine told me." It was barely an exaggeration; Shira had gained her first opportunity to act in Luke's absence, and Palpatine had summoned Luke just hours later, first to cross-examine him and then to lay down the law, citing Luke's actions of the past year as validation.

"I was angry at you," Shira huffed.

"So of course you instantly provide Palpatine with a list of my every perceived lapse during the last year. I have to admit, that does make you ideal Director of Intelligence material. Did you seriously think I wouldn't find out it was you?"

"No. I do seriously think you lack ambition, though—didn't I tell you that? Your problem is that you actually, genuinely don't care that you're being given the opportunity to step into Lord Vader's role, do you? It's wasted on you…and believe me, that's a hell of a thing to waste."

"It's also not really your problem, is it?"

"Of course it is." Shira smiled persuasively. "Surely you know I still have soft-spot for my black-haired, black-hearted Sith."

"There isn't a single soft spot in your entire body. Believe me, I know."

"That makes two of us…the perfect team." She leaned closer. "Work with me."

"Not interested," Luke said immediately. "I told you before I'm not fuel to your power trip. Look elsewhere."

"Maybe I don't need you any more. I have the Ubiqtorate, now."

"He gave you a toy to play with," Luke dismissed. "Now go sit in a corner and do that, while the rest of us get the real work done."

"Oh don't sulk," Shira said, unoffended. "You had your chance. He would have given this operation to you, if you'd just swallowed your pride."

"It has nothing to do with pride."

"Don't claim ethics now, it doesn't suit you—it's unappealing." She leaned in, voice dropping as her lips curled to a teasing smile. "Though you are cute when you pout."

Luke spared her another brief, dry glance, then looked quickly away. But for a second, a single second on their downward arc, his eyes flicked behind him, wondering if Mara was close enough to hear.

And Shira didn't miss it. "She's already gone…" Those dark lips split into a wide grin. "Wait…oh, this is too rich! You think this'll impress?! Don't be naïve."

"Yeah, that's me all over—naïve."

"Ha!" She shook her head, amused. "Don't do it, Antilles. She'll break your little black heart. She will—because you'll break hers. You can't help it, it's who you are. It's what he made you. Don't feel bad, it's a good thing. I'm impressed."

"Which is what I always aim for."

"You should stick with me," Shira pressed, unfazed. "I think today's meeting has once again proved that you can never be what she wants you to be, and she won't compromise—not on that. I, on the other hand, ask nothing of you other than what you already are. Think on that."

"I thought you said there was only room for two at the top."

Shira paused to lean in close and point slowly at his chest, then her own. "One…two."

Luke tilted his head, voice low. "That sounds dangerously close to treason."

She only smiled that predator's smile, white teeth against ruby lips. "You misunderstand, of course. Palpatine's outside of such things."

"I think you mean above."

"I think you know what I mean." With a final glance which looked him meaningfully up and down, she turned to set off into a side-corridor alone, lifting her comlink from her chest pocket, all business.

Luke watched her go, that fluid sway somewhere between a slink and a swagger. There—right there—was all kinds of trouble.

.

.

.

.

.


	12. Chapter 12

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER TWELVE**

.

.

Luke entered the wide space of the darkened storage bay without slowing, eyes briefly skipping across its neatly stacked contents then coming to rest on its single inhabitant, who stood at the far side of the bay, his back to the room. Palpatine didn't turn in acknowledgment, attention on the whorl of radiance beyond the viewport, where sluggish light slurred compared to the Star Destroyer's hyperspace velocity. They were barely a day from Fondor now, but it seemed an odd time to be summoned by his Master—and an odd location.

Palpatine remained still though he must know that Luke had entered, his straight back and wide shoulders silhouetted by the rush of luminosity hurled against the ship's shields in lightspeed. Luke slowed to a wary stop ten paces away, waiting.

His Master wore a black, stand-collared shirt and military-cut trousers, neither jacket nor cloak hiding his physique. The shoulders of that powerful frame flexed just slightly as his head lifted a fraction, his voice so cuttingly familiar by comparison. "It is customary to bow to your Emperor."

"You're not the Emperor yet." Though his voice had been quiet and without challenge, the words were anything but, and he knew it—couldn't believe he'd said it out loud. He tensed in anticipation…

Palpatine didn't even turn, his reply calm and collected. "It is also tradition for a Sith advocate to bow to the Master who taught him."

Luke paused…then straightened just slightly to make a brief bow from the neck.

Head still down and eyes part-closed, he heard the sound before he saw the blade's light—the bass thrum which rasped into being as a lightsaber was activated, casting a rich scarlet glow across the dark floor.

Tensed muscles moved subconsciously into a primed posture, loose and limber, ready to react as his heart drummed.

"Jade's lightsaber," Palpatine explained as he held it out and to the side, moving it slowly in an experimental swing. "I had thought to plunder it for parts to construct my own, but it's useless to me. The crystal is synthetic, and the modulation circuitry and emitter are both hardwire-calibrated to high-burst release, for ease of maintenance. It's weighted too lightly, with no power in the swing—a blade for one who must resort to substituting speed for technique.

"She's a soldier, not a Sith," Luke replied.

"How very true…" The blade paused mid-swing as Palpatine turned to Luke. "And yet she took your blade from you, I understand. Or perhaps you had lost the will to keep it?"

Abruptly Palpatine heaved the blade around in a wide sweep at arm's length, turning his entire body with the swing so that he halted with precise control, feet, hips and shoulders all held in alignment behind the blade, which hovered without the barest shake in line with Luke's heart—though too far away to make a strike. Luke remained still, holding his Master's eyes…and eventually, Palpatine's lips twitched a brief smile.

"But I believe it's still in there—all that power and passion. All crushed down right here at the very core of you, that much stronger for your ability to constrain it. Like a diamond waiting to shine. What do you say…" The tip of the blade weaved as Palpatine rotated his wrist in a slow, tight circle. "If I slice off all this dull and dour dirt you've acquired whilst languishing in the mud of mediocrity, will I see my Sith shine again?"

"I thought you always said I was too impulsive," Luke countered, holding his gaze steady. "That I continually acted without weighing the situation."

The blade flicked quickly away and down as Palpatine turned to the side, eyes remaining on it. "Now you weigh all things far too much."

"I can't do right for doing wrong." Luke twitched a brief smile. "But then that was always the case, wasn't it?"

Palpatine stepped aside to launch into a run of fast parries; a practiced mind dragging a new body through unfamiliar moves. Straightening, he scowled at his own technique, rolling his broad shoulders and shaking his arms looser. "Strange—I feel as if everything is in here, dormant, just waiting to be re-awakened…" Ocher eyes flicked briefly to Luke. "Sound familiar?"

Luke held silent… In a whip of speed Palpatine launched towards him, swinging the blade in a tight infinity loop as he closed—and this time Luke jerked, heels lifting, knees tensing. The blade held for a single second, then flicked decisively away again as Palpatine stepped to the side, eyeing the hilt derisively. "Too light by far. The gyroscopic cant is barely there—it may as well be an apprentice's blade." A brief twitch of narrow lips. "You used to duel with something similar when you were ten or eleven…do you remember?"

"Yes."

"By the time you were thirteen you already wielded an advocate's blade, weighted and tuned for a true Sith." Palpatine's voice took on indulgent, amused tones. "It slowed you down so much at first—there were times when I thought the blade swung you, and not the other way around. But you persevered. You held to your goal. You wanted so much to prove your worth in all things." Those searching eyes could almost be considered wistful. "What happened?"

"I grew up."

"No. You lost focus." There was not an iota of doubt in his voice.

He turned aside again, quicksilver fast, sweeping the scarlet blade at speed into more complex moves, its grinding hum snarling in hitched growls as the alignment of the containment field dragged against the blade's course.

"I have always found the practice of kata and duel to be great mental clarifiers. They free the mind from the mundanities of everyday life and lift it to a higher plane, where one must act on instinct. You rediscover the truth of who you are, in the heat of action. You channel the very core of your being." Palpatine turned, eyes aglow. "We should duel."

"I don't th—"

"I have a new body, in its prime. It should be tested. Honed."

"I…have no lightsaber."

Palpatine loosed one hand from his saber hilt to stretch it out to his side, and Luke sensed the familiar rush of Force energy given purpose. From the floor close to the viewports something small glinted for a fraction of a second, then hurled itself forward in line with Palpatine's hand as he brought his arm about, finger pointing, the move fast and fluid—

Luke snapped his hand up before his face, fingers spread, just in time to snatch the incoming hilt from the air. Even without looking he knew the heft and feel of his own saber.

His Master grinned. "I had Jade fetch it, when she brought me her own."

Luke glanced down, deeply uneasy. Although he'd trained all his life and had sparred constantly with Vader, he'd barely ever tested himself against his Master. There seemed something inherently wrong in the act. His eyes held on his inactive saber hilt. "It…was dismantled, to stop me retrieving it—the crystals will need to be re-focused."

"Then it is the perfect saber for an advocate who lacks the same."

Luke glanced up, slighted, and Palpatine's goading smiled widened.

"Jade reassembled it. She may have been a little…remiss, in her reluctance to keep her Emperor waiting, one could reasonably assume. Particularly since her own saber uses only one crystal."

Luke's own saber used three, and Palpatine well knew that. Luke let his saber hand drop to his side, purposely relaxing his shoulders. "They'll need fine calibration."

"It seems that we'll both be at a disadvantage, then." Again that smile, unmoved, as his Master's feet slid subtly into position

Luke resisted the urge to do the same in response, leaving his inactive lightsaber hilt at his side. Palpatine stared for long moments…then half-closed his eyes. Luke felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise as the Force wrapped about him, fining an automatic instinct to repel its pressing search within. But he let out a breath and relaxed…

"You are…afraid," Palpatine murmured, yellow eyes narrowed to pale slits. "Not of the duel—I taught you better than that. You fear…yourself. What you might do. What you are capable of. My wildfire in the forest…I have told you, you cannot burn me." He smiled as his eyes opened, thin lips pulling back…but the teeth beneath that familiar grin were pearl white, the face about it unlined, the body strong and straight.

For a brief second reflex took over and Luke found his mind subconsciously calculating strengths and weaknesses; how to stand against a man whose body was in its prime, yet whose mind was equipped with a lifetime of experience, countless duels behind him…

His fingers twitched about the saber hilt—

Palpatine straightened his back, shoulders dropping a trace looser, saber lifted to form that perfect defensive triangle. But his feet were a fraction too spread, meaning his rear heel was lifted too far, inadvertently locking his knee and making it a touch harder to retreat…

It wasn't a conscious decision; Luke simply launched forward. _He_ did it; _he_ acted first, igniting his saber as he went, hands wrapping about the hilt, forefingers tight to give control, latter ones loose, to aid mobility. Shoulders low, spine almost straight, his center of balance over his hips. It was all as natural to him as breathing, a state of utter familiarity. The first swing was from his left at shoulder height; a stock opener, a test of reflex.

As his Master raised his blade in classic response Luke took one step to the right on his inward swing, letting the blades connect but holding no power against the counter. The move brought him swiftly around Palpatine's left and dangerously close, forcing his Master to sidestep hastily to bring himself to a more defendable position. Luke could have pushed the advantage, could have kept on moving to his right to make Palpatine's imprecise footwork even weaker…but he disengaged, came back to ready-position with his saber held en-guard.

Palpatine grinned, resetting his own stance in reply. "This is a powerful body, but a slow one. I need to teach it speed and accuracy."

Luke barely heard, mind still calculating; powerful, in its prime…but a lifetime spent protected in a cloning tube. It would be stiff. Muscles could be worked in stasis using low currents to trigger contractions, but they couldn't be fully stretched.

He was already moving again, one step forward and two to the side, Palpatine matching in defense, saber angled. Luke brought his own saber high and then down, telegraphing the move…and again Palpatine made the perfect response, bringing his own blade high and horizontal to protect his head from the downward strike—

Mid-blow Luke twisted his rear hand against the base of his hilt, altering the saber's course entirely so that it now swung in from the side at neck-height with deadly speed. With a brief yell Palpatine backpedaled too quickly, his mind moving ahead of his feet so that the counter was clumsy and inelegant, too late to have had any real effect.

Instead of completing the blow Luke pushed the heel of his hand to his hilt, angling his blade backwards as his arms continued forwards, stopping his blade from making the contact whilst still proving that it could have. Immediately he pulled back, saber lowering to torso-level. In any normal sparring match both parties would have moved to a neutral ready-position in acknowledgment of the strike, but instead Palpatine twisted about, blade whisking up in a wide swing which batted Luke's aside. In the same second a heavy Force-fed body-blow impacted against his sternum sending him staggering backwards, gasping for breath. His feet had barely touched the floor before his saber hilt yanked up and to the side of its own volition, wrenching free of his grasp to sail across the bay and clatter noisily against the far wall, falling amongst storage trunks stacked there, its blade dousing. The drone of an incoming blade made Luke wrench about, dropping instantly to a crouch with one hand to the floor, arm raised—

The flash of bright scarlet froze an inch from his arm, its thrum a raw growl. For a second it remained, then twitched away, leaving a wide, bright afterglow in Luke's vision. Still gasping from the body-blow, he blinked it away to see Palpatine two paces back, shaking out his shoulders as he whipped the blade in low lines.

Luke rose, hand to his ribs, and Palpatine glanced to him with patronizing amusement.

"You seem to be without a blade, my friend."

With a huff, Luke turned and set off toward the far side of the bay, taking his time whilst he coaxed air back into his lungs. Two steps on he sensed the brief susurration of Force-power, and his lost hilt clattered as it pulled free from between the crates and launched forward at speed. It was all that Luke could do in the time to hunch back and twist slightly, so that the unlit hilt impacted with painful force against his shoulder rather than his head, ricocheting from the blow to skitter across the floor unenhanced.

He wrenched about to glare at Palpatine, who simply stared, head tilted, brow knitted in curious confusion. Grinding his jaw Luke straightened, rolling his shoulder against the pain as he turned to his saber—

Again that tremor in his senses made him tense, eyes flicking warily to his saber hilt.

Immediately he heard footfalls behind him, and the growl of Palpatine's blade as he closed. Luke didn't turn, instead setting forward at a run for his hilt, throwing himself into a roll a pace away so that he snatched it as he passed, dragging it up and activating it in the same move, hands closing in an awkward grip about the hilt, his back against the floor.

The incoming blow had all the power of a downward swing behind it, all the strength of Palpatine's arms and shoulders and torso. It reverberated down Luke's blade with teeth-rattling power, driving it backwards as he flinched to the side, so that both blade tips sizzled and flared into the steel deck over his shoulder, making a blaze of heat from molten metal bloom close to his head.

Etiquette forgotten, Luke kicked out with both legs, missing Palpatine only because his Master jerked back in a Force-fed jump which took him clear. But it gained Luke the moment he needed to roll back to standing, letting his blade drag in a flare of sparks where it cut into the bay floor as he held it one-handed, looking only to get upright and into a defendable position—

And with a brief, bright kick, his saber died entirely.

Luke glanced to it in alarm, then back to Palpatine, who stared for only a second, then set forward at a full run, blade lifting in preparation to strike, perfectly willing to take advantage of the saber's unanticipated failure.

Luke backpedaled, then turned about and ran for the edge of the bay where the storage crates gave cover. As he reached the nearest, he swung his hand out and brought his dead hilt against it in a heavy strike, knowing that it was the inexpertly-aligned crystals inside which must have moved in the jarring blows the hilt had received. He made another strike as he ran—and the blade flared to life, its drag kicking his arm back as he yelled in surprise.

Twisting about, he brought the saber up to meet Palpatine's incoming blow, locking the two blades and rolling them about each other in a fast spin, then pushing to the side when his own blade sat inside Palpatine's.

With the storage crates blocking Palpatine's ability to spin about to free his blade, he was forced into a hasty retreat, ducking and sidestepping as he wrenched away with one hand against the storage crate to push himself clear.

Immediately that he had distance his hand came up, and again Luke felt his saber hilt yanked back and to the side by the Force, dragging one hand free. With a yell he twisted back and took the still-pulling saber in both hands, foot braced against the crates, his whole body-weight set against the Force-driven pull. But against the scope of the Force it was nothing, and as he glanced back it was to see Palpatine's incoming blade at head-height. It stopped an inch from his neck as he flinched aside…and a second later his saber hilt was released, making him stumble backwards, all his weight still set against the invisible pull.

Fuming, he looked to Palpatine, who again stood with that slight tilt to his head—but in comprehension, now.

"And so it comes to this. All those years of training and practice and diligence…all forsaken. You may as well duel blindfolded."

The disappointment in his voice, the condemnation, burned in Luke's chest as Palpatine continued.

"I granted a seven year old boy life because I sensed something within him—the gift that so few have, the rarest distinction. The capacity to step beyond the mundane, the connection to something greater. Something exceptional. I took him and I taught him and I showed him a galaxy that most could not even see, let alone comprehend—control. I honed him into something of significance. Of power." Palpatine shook his head slowly. "And now you disown it. Shun it—deny it. Do you know how many would give half their lifespan for the power that courses within you?"

"Only half?" Luke's eyes stayed low, voice quiet. "It took my entire life from me. It took my father's from him."

Palpatine's head twitched, lip curling. "Is that what this is? Because of Corsin—because of what happened there?"

"Not just Corsin," Luke murmured.

"Your father," Palpatine said. And perhaps he'd known all along that this was the root of all of Luke's antipathy, because his condemnation was immediate. "And what lies did he fill your head with? All that you were, all that focus and clarity of purpose…all relinquished to a few grudging, grubby little promises made on nothing more than a petty commonality of blood."

"He didn't—"

"You forget, time and again he turned against all that he claimed to hold dear—took that course without remorse. I gave him everything—life itself, when I rescued him on Mustafar—yet it was his intention that I die by his hand, at Corsin."

"Because you used him—you used both of us!" Luke yelled the words, fingers tightening about his saber hilt.

"Both…" Palpatine straightened slightly, voice laden with pity at the realization, at the very notion. "You think…oh, child, you think that he was trying to protect you?"

Luke hesitated, and it was all the incentive Palpatine needed. He paused, as if seeking his words with care, voice almost apologetic. "He was using you, at Corsin. Using you to curb my actions and responses."

"You're lying."

Palpatine's eyes narrowed just slightly at the accusation, but his thin lips twitched to a brief, forced smile, shoulders settling. Luke felt the ghost of awareness brush against him as Palpatine sought to test whether he'd used the Force to verify his claim, and though he'd allowed it before, this time he kept his mind closed, nothing revealed.

His Master's chin twitched in annoyance at being so blatantly shut out, but surprisingly he held his temper, voicing frustration rather than the raw anger Luke had expected. "You have known Vader your whole life. You know what he was. Think! You went to challenge him, as I ordered…and then?"

"I…we fought, we dueled."

"But you did not stop him."

Luke looked down, deflated. Again the Force bushed against his shields, and his eyes rose, full of guilt. Palpatine shook his head. "You could not stop him because you did not want to. This…gaping flaw that you hold, this dire failing… Did you truly trust him?"

"No! No…" Luke hesitated. He hadn't—he hadn't! And yet…

"Where were you, when he came for me…because you would not have allowed it."

He was so sure of that. It reverberated in every syllable. Was Luke proud…or dismayed?

"I was…unconscious. I woke on a scuppered shuttle in deep space, close to the Outer Rim. Its guidance, sublight engines and outgoing comms had been damaged. But he'd left the incoming comms so that I could hear them. I knew that…that…"

"Everything had played out. You had served your purpose to him, one way or the other."

Luke shook his head. "He'd programmed the shuttle jump, so he knew where I was. He would have come for me, if he'd lived." Was that what he believed…or what he'd hoped?

"An assumption based on what? The truth is that you were in the perfect prison for a Sith." That harsh voice softened again to the level tones of one delivering unwelcome but unarguable facts. "I have done the same, with Jedi—Vader himself had, in the past, leaving them stranded and helpless. Easy target practice for any Star Destroyer, enabling any common captain with knowledge of the coordinates to kill even a Sith. A neat and efficient resolution to a tool that had served its purpose."

Luke scowled, unable to meet Palpatine's eyes. His saber-hand had dropped entirely now, his other arm slowly rising in defense, clasped at his chest against a far more wounding threat. "I was unconscious when he took me to the shuttle. If he'd wanted to kill me he could have done so then."

"But he had no guarantee that his duel against me would be successful. He needed you alive until then. A bargaining chip to stay my hand."

Luke stumbled a step back, thoughts tumbling, all cohesive arguments fracturing and failing. He knew—he _knew_ he was being told nothing but divisive insinuations which he couldn't counter, because he didn't know the truth.

And Palpatine wasn't going to tell him. Somehow, Luke had admitted everything he'd intended to withhold; given up facts that he alone knew, in return for…nothing. Palpatine had admitted nothing in return.

Luke raised his eyes, realizing; and why should he? Why should he tell Luke anything, other than what served his own interests? Why tell him the truth at all—ever? Without thinking, he opened himself to the Force, spreading his consciousness within it, the unfamiliarity of even this limited act enervating. It swirled in complex eddies about the two Sith, enfolding and permeating them both…though Luke's awareness came to a harsh stop at his Master's mind, permasteel barriers in place—

Still, Palpatine's thin lips twitched to a brief smile. "Then you do still remember how. I had begun to despair that perhaps it was you who had truly died at Corsin."

A memory burst through and Luke was in the corridor of the _Conqueror_ again, lightsaber in his hands, facing off against his father—his father! Because of this man, who stood before him now voicing such empty sympathy, he had dueled his own father.

"You turned us against each other," he husked, eyes coming back to his Master. "You did that!"

"I protected you."

"How?!" Luke backed off another step, muscles tensing, the hand which held the inactive hilt of his saber rising. "You never protected me from him a single day in my entire life!"

"I gave my _life_ to teach you the most valuable lesson of yours," Palpatine hissed. "That Vader was a betrayer. A liar. A murderer. Did he tell you—did he tell you that he turned on your mother? That he killed h—"

Outraged, Luke wrenched his lightsaber around without thinking, activating the blade as he did so. Palpatine's saber came to meet it in a bright flash of sparks as Luke leaned into the blades, jaw clenching, mind reeling.

He sensed rather than saw Palpatine's chin lift a fraction; felt the inward rush of incandescent power—

The Force-blow was enough to throw him backwards, whiting out his vision for a brief, breathless moment. He sprawled, back to the cool deck, shaking his head to clear it—

Instinct jerked him to the side in a wrenching twist, so that the incoming blade missed him by inches. He scrabbled up and back, swinging his saber in a blind arc to cover his retreat. On his feet, Luke braced—but the blow came in from the back of his heels, jolting them forwards so that he fell hard onto his back, the air hammered from his lungs at the impact.

There was no time—no time, as he scrambled to his feet once again, knowing he'd be knocked down—

Palpatine was there instantly, blade catching Luke's up in a tight, fast circle. Luke struggled to move with them, twisting his shoulders and wrists to gain the momentum that would give him control. For a fraction of a second the pressure on his blade lessened and he knew he had the initiative—

Then the Force ripped his saber hilt to the side, leaving him wide open. He used the momentum to make a fast three-sixty turn on the spot, bringing his blade in on Palpatine's unprotected side. The unexpected counter bought him a second to brace for the next onslaught…but all the while the knowledge rang clear that there was nothing he could do—not against this. Not against the Force.

The blow came from the side this time, wrenching his neck painfully and knocking his legs from under him so that he fell awkwardly, one hand out to catch his weight. Embedding with barely a drag into the deck, his lightsaber stopped only when the metal hilt jarred to an angled stop, jerking his wrist back as it ripped painfully from his grip. He yelled out, furious as he pushed to his feet, hand out to his saber hilt as it rolled beyond reach, blade deactivating—

It was instant; instinctive. His hand opened—

The saber flew to it, igniting as it landed in his palm…and it was as if a floodgate had opened. As if he'd held his breath for as long as he possibly could, and only now dragged in a huge gulp of air which rushed with the blood through his entire body, lighting every cell.

Level with him, Palpatine brought his scarlet blade in high from above—and Luke dragged the Force in about him in a massive draft, pitching it out against his attacker with a wild yell.

Unprepared, Palpatine was hurled bodily backwards in a high arc until the power that had thrown him was wrestled under control and his Master twisted mid-air to land heavily in a dropped crouch, eyes wide, lips pulled back from those white teeth in a wide grin.

Instead of setting his stance to a wary defense Luke launched forward with a yell, saber held high. He felt the buzz of the Force as it enfolded about his saber hilt yet again, but offset it without even thinking, a tight enveloping counter-force which freed the blade and his hand in the flash of a single thought.

They came together a second later, blades flaring in a coruscating glow. With a yell Luke twisted aside and turned full-circle, bringing his saber in low and pressing Palpatine to an awkward defense. He flipped up and away, forcing Luke to flinch clear of his blade as it trailed in a wide arc behind him. Luke threw out his hand and wrenched the Force down—and Palpatine's body was caught mid-air and slammed against the deck, curling him onto his side in a breathless gasp.

Luke launched forward as Palpatine thrust his arm out, hand to the side. The Force rippled a warning as a crate dislodged itself and heaved inward at head height, slowing Luke as he was forced to glance to it, head jerking as he summoned the mental counter to snatch it from its path and rip it and its contents to shreds in a single second, so that they rained down in a wide burst of finely-shattered pieces.

It had been a second—less—but by the time he'd turned back Palpatine was on his feet and pulling his saber to ready, grinning maniacally. With a yell Luke set forward, no subtlety or cunning, just an inward blow with every iota of strength, physical and Force, that could be brought to bear. Palpatine met the blow head-on, the blades flaring against each other in a splash of searing sparks—

And Luke's saber failed again, dousing entirely. Both men stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden shift of momentum which forced Luke to snatch one hand up to Palpatine's wrist to stop himself falling face-first into the remaining blade. As Palpatine recovered and tried to twist his arm free Luke pushed off and back, using the Force to augment a fast backward flip.

With a yell Palpatine came forward and Luke glanced about, desperate. Everything—every single item in the bay that wasn't bolted down—lifted in a maelstrom of movement. Like a contained tornado they heaved and spun, cutting Palpatine off entirely as Luke glanced to his dead saber hilt, knowing he had moments.

Staring, he split his control, lifting the hilt before him as his head dropped, eyes closing. _Focus!_

Bringing the hand that held it closer to his forehead he concentrated; crystals, three; alignment. He knew exactly, precisely what was wrong inside the hilt. He had built this saber from scratch; had focused the crystals himself, using the Force—but in silence, with preparation, in meditation.

Hunching slightly, he let the room and its demands fall away. In a cacophony of noise the crates he'd lifted clattered to the deck, and Luke sensed the intense inpull of power as Palpatine sought to clamber past the suddenly released barrage.

 _Concentrate!_ The noise and the clamor and the danger all fell to a single tone at the edge of his awareness as his breath froze, his whole being centered on a single task…

In a flare of noise and light the saber blade ignited, its rasping growl loud in his ears. Triumphant, he turned his attention, reacting before he'd even opened his eyes, muscles answering a flare of intuition so that his blade was already in place to counter Palpatine's long before he'd seen it. Still deeply immersed in the Force, Luke caught the incoming saber with ease and rolled his own over it with a flick of his wrist which snapped it down and aside in a single fluid movement.

And he was inside Palpatine's defense, his coruscating blade a fraction of an inch from Palpatine's neck. Both men froze, a tableau of potential—

"Is this the moment you've dreamed of?" Palpatine hissed, panting. "Do it!"

Visible to Luke in the reflection of the viewpanes behind Palpatine one hand was held at the small of his back, glowing with the bright blue-white corona of Dark-side lightening—and perhaps he thought he could move fast enough to save his own life. But Luke's saber, held an inch from his Master's throat, made that…

Those last few words reverberated with a kick of realization, their truth hammering through the scarlet haze; _his saber, held an inch from his Master's throat…_

His heart skipped a beat and pounded against his ribs with physical force as the room pitched, making him gasp. _His saber, an inch from his Master's throat…_

He stared, muscles trembling, chest locked…but the ingrained horror at his own unforgivable actions had already fired and he wrenched the blade away, deactivating it as he dropped down to one knee, his body and head bent low.

"I'm sorry." He was—genuinely, wholeheartedly…well, perhaps not entirely that. But too many long, hard years of ingrained and unarguable laws couldn't overcome a brief twelve months of crushed revelation. His hands—his whole body—shook as his lungs still heaved from exertion. "I shouldn't have taken it that far."

"But you did," Palpatine said quietly, his own exertion sounding in his labored breaths. "You pushed as far as you possibly could. As far as your heart and your soul would ever allow…and yet I still stand. Unharmed. Luke, I _gave_ you this moment…I brought you to it, do you understand?" A pale hand reached out to take his chin and gently lift it. "Do you understand the demons that I brought you here to vanquish?"

The gentle pressure remained, urging Luke to stand. He did so face down, mortified, unable to look his Master in the eye. Then, in a rare and confusing moment, his Master's hand slipped gently to the nape of Luke's neck to lean him forwards and lay a slow, indulgent kiss to Luke's forehead—the ultimate forgiveness.

"Put them aside," Palpatine said benevolently. "Put all thoughts that you brought in here with you tonight aside. They are done, now. Played out to their conclusion."

Luke glanced up, realizing. He'd known; Palpatine had known the dark thoughts that had gnawed at the edge of Luke's compliance every day since his Master's restoration. That was what this had been—the opportunity, the rare dispensation to lay them to rest. Because his Master was right; given the moment—the one, perfect chance—Luke had been unable to act. Unable to live out the fantasy of pushing the blade home. The air left him in a heavy sigh, and he felt his entire body deflate, limbs leaden as Palpatine continued softly but gravely.

"You could not lay the blow because you know in your heart that we cannot exist, save with each other. Only this is constant. Only this is worthy." He released his hold, but as Luke tried to back up one strong hand clasped tightly to the top of his shoulder, stilling him, all fight gone. "You once told me that you would die for me. And I— I have stepped back from that same maw, for you. I have returned to give you purpose, once more. To give you shelter—the only true shelter. Here, in my service. You and I, we are fated. We are allies. My apprentice, my surrogate son, my black-hearted Sith."

.

.

.

.

.


	13. Chapter 13

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

.

.

"Commander Antilles," Moff Sekati showed the barest smile, though even that was something Mara had never seen on her face before. But then their brief comm earlier today, purposely spoken on open military channels to confirm only that the Rhen Var mission had been a success and requesting permission to dock at Sekati's Fondor Shipyards en-route to Moff Kessler, had doubtless been intriguing.

A second, coded transmission, requesting Sekati meet them in the small docking bay at the base of the command tower of the dormant and unmanned Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ , had been exactly what Sekati had been waiting to hear.

Only Luke and Mara were onboard their shuttle as it docked, in this carefully choreographed operation designed to convince Moff Sekati of the Emperor's return, and so bring her—and therefore the assets of the systems and the sprawling Fondor starship construction facilities which she commanded—back into the fold.

Mara and Luke had been the most credible combination to lead her in; both had met Sekati during her service in the Colony systems, when they had intermittently attended courses at the prestigious military hot-house of Carida's Officer Training Academy. But whilst Mara had remained purposefully invisible outside of those times, Luke had gone on to occasionally make requests directly from Coruscant to commandeer either the _Relentless_ or the _Vendetta_ , both of which flew out of the Colonies—at the time, part of Moff Sekati's tenure. And whilst onboard, Luke had maintained coded communications directly with the Emperor. Because of that, the shrewd Sekati would associate him not only with the Ubiqtorate and the palace, but with the Emperor himself, covertly and at the highest level.

And Luke now certainly looked the part, even to Mara's critical eye. Impeccably dressed in the Ubiqtorate uniform that he had worn without fail since Palpatine's directive, his unruly hair was now slicked back and his bearing effortlessly military, as he walked forward to make a brief nod which gave nothing away as to either's perceived status.

So Moff Sekati's words were loaded as she watched Luke with sharp, questioning eyes. "It's been a long time, Commander."

"It has, Ma'am." Luke glanced meaningfully about the Super Star Destroyer's cavernous bay, impressive despite its powered-down state. "It seems we've both been busy in the interim."

"I was under the impression that you were onboard the _Conqueror_ at Corsin when it happened," Sekati said frankly, of the Rebel plot which had destroyed the Emperor's Star Destroyer to accomplish his assassination. "The _Relentless'_ logs stated that you had traveled over to the Emperor's flagship an hour or so before the attack occurred. You were listed as KIA."

Luke glanced down. "Captain Parlan would have been unaware that I had left the _Conqueror_ almost immediately after I arrived, on a covert mission."

"…Assigned by the Emperor?"

It was a polite testing of his undisclosed status, particularly given his association with Mara and Shira, themselves both ex-Hands—or rather, reinstated ones, though Sekati didn't know that yet.

Luke's confirmation was a carefully neutral. "Yes Ma'am."

Sekati glanced down, nodding. "His loss was profound. I no longer consider this the same Empire that he created. We fall a little further every single day, without his leadership."

"He was an inspiration to us all," Luke said somberly. "A personal mentor. I don't believe anyone else could step into the void he left, ever. I was proud to dedicate my life to his service."

It was amazing, Mara reflected, how he could switch like this; could present this image of total and unwavering commitment—could feel it on some level, despite his reticence at times. Because it _was_ real; she knew that in a way that only a trained Force-adept could.

Yes, he questioned occasionally—almost challenged outright. But despite his claims of _Occus Tor_ , a Black Heart, the unflinching integrity which he held hidden at his very core seemed his greatest asset, valued both by herself and Palpatine, though perhaps for different reasons. She felt a swell of reassurance in that; in knowing that Luke too knew his worth to the Emperor, and was proud of it. In moments like this, it was all too easy to let such resonant and mutual allegiance quash all lesser worries.

Sekati too paused in respect, then nodded to Mara, moving the meeting forward. "Have you secured the codes?"

"We've secured so much more, Ma'am," Mara replied confidently. "We're finally ready to move forward."

Moff Sekati stared, tentative for just a second, then nodded. "Let's start with the _Executor._ Bring it online, and we can do just that."

They had been relying on the fact that Sekati would want to ensure that the activation codes worked before making any more visible commitment of manpower and hardware, and so would come to the _Executor_ alone as agreed, rather than risk Moff Kessler finding out about her intended deceit. As it was, she had brought only two other officers who both waited a discrete distance back, close to the only other shuttle in the otherwise empty VIP bay. They clearly knew what was going on—or thought they did—but were willing to follow Sekati's lead.

"We'll need to input the codes on the bridge of the _Executor_." Luke was all business, calm and professional as he made only the briefest of glances in the direction of Sekati's officers. "We'd prefer to do that with only yourself present, for now."

Sekati stared for a few seconds... "You understand, Commander Antilles; the _Executor_ has nineteen mooring points across her hull, and there are four other Star Destroyers and six frigates in port, as well as stationary heavy ion guns mounted across the construction dock, and high-load tractor beams which can be brought online in a matter of moments."

Luke smiled briefly. "I'm familiar with the layout of high-security military docks, Ma'am. I also know that it would take four or five hours to bring the _Executor's_ systems fully online for the first time, and a specialist crew to do it. We're not trying to commandeer the _Executor_ , Moff Sekati, or to sideline you in any way. We'd simply prefer that the minimum of people be on the bridge at this stage. You can appreciate that, I'm sure."

There was the slightest susurration in the air, to Mara's astute senses; the barest mental pressure applied…

Moff Sekati nodded once and glanced back to her support, hand lifting to indicate that they wait as she entered the turbolift to the _Executor's_ bridge.

.

The doors slid open onto the rare sight of a completely dark and inactive command bridge, lit only by the transitory glow that spilled out from the turbolift itself and the distant diffuse glimmer of the massive construction docks, themselves partly powered down in this section due to the _Executor's_ dormant state. It was strange, to see a military bridge this way, with the lower crew pits set to either side of the main walkway unmanned, their consoles silent. Only the intermittent flicker of the Ops console's life support system gave any indication that the ship was capable of life at all.

The turbolift doors slid shut as they entered, leaving only a subtle luminosity that softened the sharp corners and hard plasteel surfaces, casting indistinct shadows towards the angled lozenge-shaped viewports that ran across the front of the large bridge whose deep, angled frames…

It took a moment even for Mara to grow sufficiently accustomed to the low light to see, and she was expecting it;

A figure stood with his back to the view, silhouetted by the muted glow. He wore a long, heavy cloak of ink black, whose raised cowl was draped low over his face, hiding it in shadows. But his voice as he spoke…oh, that voice was instantly familiar. And in the dense darkness of the hood's shadows two vibrant yellow eyes practically glowed with a light all their own, fixed unswervingly on their target.

"Moff Sekati."

It was his voice; his voice had barely changed at all. He needed to lower it just slightly and even to Mara, who had known him so well, it was the old Emperor himself stood before her.

Sekati froze on the spot. A brief, soft gasp escaped her as she stared, wide eyed, struggling to comprehend what she was seeing. Despite her notable career, like most Moffs she had met the Emperor on only a few occasions; enough to have been left with an indelible image, but not sufficient to be intimately familiar.

It must have been instantly and deeply identifiable to Sekati, this image of her Emperor, face hidden by a heavy cowl, voice that unique, gravelled tone which mixed self-belief and cool conviction in perfect combination, tinted by the dry disdain of one who knew that no other could possibly stand as his equal.

Still mute, Sekati walked three quick paces forward and Shira, who had crossed to the _Executor_ with Palpatine and remained in the shadows to the side of the bridge, stepped hastily forward. Palpatine lifted his hand in casual allowance, and Shira halted instantly. It was vital that all played their part here; that Palpatine was accorded every courtesy, as only the Emperor deserved.

"This is difficult, I understand," Palpatine rasped in indulgent tones. He stepped forward, mimicking the slight stoop to his stance that he'd had of old. "There are few who I believe could comprehend this meeting. Even fewer who could assess and internalize it, to move forward."

The inferred praise brought her round slightly and she blinked…blinked again, coming out of her shock. "But…Corsin…?"

"The Force is a potent ally to those on whom it endows its power. Corsin was a setback, not a conclusion…do you doubt me?"

She was barely five steps away now, slowing to a hesitant halt as Palpatine held his place, her features pinched, uncertainty tinged with hope. "This…can't be."

"We last spoke at the initial victory celebration of Operation StrikeFear, held in the Oval on Crouscant," Palpatine said evenly. "You had just received your commission to Moff, following your part in the early successes of the StrikFear campaign. We spoke briefly and privately, less than an hour later. I asked your opinion of the campaign's success. You attributed it to superior Intelligence and technology, and stated that though the former was outside of your field of expertise, you were proud to have been part of the latter. I informed you that you would transfer from the Kuat Shipyards to Fondor Shipyards, tasked with raising its military division to the same uncompromising standards of quality and output." Palpatine paused to glance about him. "You have not disappointed me."

Sekati simply stared in silence as Palpatine recounted intimate knowledge of their private conversation. She hesitated, vacillating, _wanting_ to believe…

A fraction; just a fraction more would push her over the edge, Mara knew. She held her breath, willing her master to say more, to grant that final persuasion which Sekati almost begged for with baited breath…but he remained silent, expectant. Waiting. Presuming…

And perhaps he'd comprehended that those final steps must be Sekati's alone, because moments later she dropped to one knee, head respectfully lowered, voice reverential. "Your Imperial Excellency. It is—it _remains_ —an honor to serve."

.

Caught up in the moment, relieved and inspired and uplifted, Mara glanced to where Luke stood to her side at loose attention, seeking to share the glory of a transcendental moment; to see the same jubilant run of emotions reflected in his—

But his face was turned away, attention elsewhere entirely as the moment passed unheeded, his gaze held instead on the viewport and the dark void of open space beyond.

.

.

.

.

.

.

It had been easy, in the end. Some small, acerbic voice within Luke wondered why he had thought for one moment that it would be otherwise, if this path was his Master's intent. The past and the present melded into one and wrapped about Palpatine, and all it had taken was the shadows of a cloak…because there would always be those in command who _wanted_ to believe. They wanted their Emperor back, they wanted their lives back—their authority and their privilege and their unassailable status—and here was a man who didn't simply imply that they might regain it, but acted as if it had not been shattered in the first place. A man who stood indomitable and unyielding, supremely confident that the fragmentation of the Empire was some petty annoyance that would be dealt with for nothing more than his own personal gratification—the satisfaction of cleaning house, before he moved forward once again, triumphant.

Luke had spent the remainder of the day and the entire evening sat at a large conference table as the select clique of Sekati's Moffs who were included in their Emperor's new Court discussed strategies and withcalled ships from their small fleet to Fondor, in preparation for the _Executor's_ launch and the action which would follow.

Palpatine sat to the head of the table, as he always had, listening as outlines were explained, altered, incorporated or dismissed. He paid particular attention to Moff Sekati, pulling her in with persuasive praise. The slurs and harrying would come later, when he had a better hold, Luke knew. Same old games.

Stood back, a spectator in a way he had never really felt before, he could see the strings so clearly. Perhaps because he remembered the lessons. Remembered being taught by constant example to apply them to his own life, if on a much smaller scale—though Palpatine himself had never deigned to live his own life within mundane limits. Was that his greatest asset—his confidence, his self-belief, his limitless sense of entitlement, and willingness to spread his desires across a far greater canvas?

Luke remembered using the self-same technique to save his own hide on Rishi, when the ex-Imperial officer had identified him as Ubiqtorate. He'd picked out the single, most receptive mind—the most gullable in that case, but it could have been the most invested, the most ambitious, the most insecure; reasons didn't matter—and applied pressure. Because when one being capitulated, another tended to follow…then another, then another. The domino effect; the power of numbers—of sentient nature—exponentially stacking in your favor. Palpatine simply utilized the same technique on a grander scale.

The rank and file knew nothing, of course. Now, as ever, they were unimportant in his Master's plans. Only the officers present—those whom Sekati trusted and whom Palpatine had subtly appraised with the Force—were privy to the true drive behind this sudden offensive; the revelation as to why exactly everything had galvanized, and their Sector Moff was fuelled with a new fervor. But that sense of direction already jumped like a jolt of power through Sekati's fleet, to Luke's seeking senses. A change in the wind that only his Master had ever been able to inspire, whether he was visible or no.

It was almost dawn before the last arrangements were cemented and commands sent, to summon those of his Master's newly-reclaimed fleet considered necessary for the campaign ahead. Most would arrive within the next day or so, a few more would rendezvous en-route, but already a sizeable contingent lit the void around the staggered Fondor Shipyards. The previously-dark _Executor_ was amass with lights, a hive of concerted activity as Luke left the meeting and walked down its spotless corridors, the clock already ticking down to its launch…

And Luke was at a loss as to why he felt no part of it. Why it left him cold. He'd felt the shift in Mara's spirit, the deepening sense of renewed commitment. Even Shira was focused on her master's commands right now, spurred on by new and driving purpose. Why didn't he feel the same?

And if not that…what did he feel?

He glanced again to his Master's back as he followed two paces behind, escorting him to the grand stretch of chambers onboard the _Executor_ which had always been intended for the Emperor's sole use—the _Steadfast's_ impressive quarters were already dismissed as inadequate, as was the _Steadfast_ itself.

It seemed to have become Luke's place to trail around everywhere after Palpatine once more, as he had since he'd been seven years old. His last commission at Corsin had been to become Palpatine's permanent bodyguard, his long-anticipated designation as a Hand—along with all the freedoms that inferred—rescinded by Palpatine's command, in favor of this new assignment. He'd balked at it then, and the thought of being dragged back to fulfill it now was equally disturbing.

Yet he was already being treated as such; as Palpatine had retired to his quarters, Luke had been handed a datapad listing intended staff and troop assignments onboard the _Executor_ , as well as itineraries and minutes of the night's meetings. He'd gone through the list of personnel with Moff Sekati, still driven to be the one to assign guards to his Master's door—ones he'd personally vetted—before flicking to Palpatine's itinerary for the next few days and identifying several points as unacceptable in some way; an insufficiently policeable area, inadequate security, potentially uncleared personnel present…

Eventually he'd entered his own assigned quarters still staring at the reviesed details on the screen, hand hovering over the entries as he checked he'd dealt with them all. Without bothering to look about the room he sat at the desk and opened a new page, intending to make a few addendums...but instead, staring at the blank canvas, he used the tip of one finger to sketch delicate, shrewd eyes beneath arched brows. A slim nose; shading to indicate the appealing curve of full red lips. A few pale freckles across high cheekbones. Fast outlines of long, russet hair which—

He paused, staring in realization…then blanked the image.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Mara found Luke two hours after the last meeting had finished. She'd returned to her newly-assigned quarters onboard the _Executor_ but, unable to sleep, had dressed and set out again with no particular purpose in mind…so she'd thought.

Her feet had brought her of their own accord to the long corridor within the _Executor's_ Command Tower which housed the impressive stretch of Palpatine's apartments and offices, the most obvious place that she would find…it was only now, when she slowed in the wide span of the stretching, featureless gray corridor, that she realized who she'd come here to see.

Four Special Ops troopers stood to loose attention at the entrance to the Emperor's apartments, but there were six other doors between here and there, intended to house key staff. She was about to head to the door situated nearest to Palpatine's apartments when she paused, glancing instead to the door to her immediate right—the furthest away. With barely a hesitation she stepped forward. Lifting her hand to knock, she was saved the trouble when it slid aside to reveal Luke, head tilted in knowing expectation.

"What?"

Mara blinked. "I'd ask if you'd got out of the wrong side of bed, but I'm guessing you haven't actually been there yet."

His dark eyes flicked aside in avoidance. "It's late."

She'd barely made to walk forward through the doorway when he surprised her by stepping out into the hallway. "Is there something you want, Mara?"

"The corridor—really?" Neutral territory; they couldn't get too personal here, and he knew it. She frowned, trying to unravel his behavior.

He sighed roughly, then glanced to the far end of the corridor where the guards stood out of earshot, though he kept his voice muted. "There's safety in distance. Mine and other's."

Mara stared, at a loss. "You're gonna have to give me more than that."

He hesitated, aware that they were under scrutiny but seeming in that moment genuinely apologetic. "Occus Tor _._ "

 _Black heart_. It was all she needed—all that was required to make his sudden avoidance crystal clear.

"Don't you dare—don't you dare _ever_ make that kind of decision on my behalf!"

Her voice had risen unthinkingly, and he looked again down to the end of the hallway, keeping his own voice low.

"People can't be close to me and be safe—not now. Not now he's back. I'm trying to protect you."

"From what," she argued, determined to lock him down once and for all. "You? Because if so, let me tell you, I can look after myself. And I hate to burst your bubble, but I sure as hell can handle you."

"No distractions, you know that. No compromise. Ever."

"Am I a compromise?"

"No." He sighed roughly, head down. "I meant compromises in a Hand's dedication—in their focus. Those are Palpatine's rules, you _know_ that. You've lived with them your whole life. We both have."

She felt a brief pang of guilt…but this wasn't that—it wasn't. "This isn't a compromise, for the very reason you just quoted. Luke, we grew up with this, we know the rules. We know the boundaries, we know…we know where our loyalties lie."

He glanced briefly to her, and immediately away again, jaw clamped. Then he dropped back against the door, rubbing hard at his eyes with the heels of his hands, drained.

Mara reached up, but stopped short of actually resting her hand to his arm. "You're tired."

"I'm not tired." He raised dark-ringed eyes to hers, and she tilted her head in silence. "Okay, I'm tired. That changes nothing."

"Other than how tetchy you get." She shook her head, not wanting to get into a sparring match for the entertainment of their watchful audience at the far end of the corridor. "But you're right, it changes nothing. In the end, it still all comes down to one thing; do you want to make this work?"

"I don't think we can."

"That's not what I asked. I asked do you want to?"

He dragged his hands through his black hair as he let out a sigh. Kept his eyes closed for a long time…

When he opened them there was that same brief, bright wayward spark that had always drawn her in. The one that she'd first seen when he'd been tied to that chair onboard the _Steadfast_ over Rishi, stripped, drugged, drunk and singularly unshaken by the whole experience. Defiantly so.

She shook her head. "You know, in the larger scheme of things I don't understand why this even bothers you."

"You're kidding me," he murmured. "This is by far the most terrifying thing I've ever known."

And she smiled; grinned…because if this was enough to do that to Luke Antilles, then it was _big_. "Meet me tonight in our bolt-hole."

The change was instantaneous. He visibly withdrew, leaning back as he glanced down the corridor to the far door.

"No." He shook his head. "We can't. I'm serious, we let it go, now. All of it. You of all people know we have no choice in this—not us."

"Tonight," Mara repeated firmly. "I'll be waiting there."

"Don't," he said, composure restored. "I won't come."

"Tonight," she repeated, then turned to walk quickly away, giving him no time to answer.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Mara sat hunkered down in the limited space of the cramped little cubby-hole that was droid maintenance access inlet number 843, where they always came to hide from the galaxy. Staying onboard the _Executor_ in the days leading up to its launch, they had somehow fallen back on the same type of low-roofed droid maintenance access that they'd claimed for their own onboard the _Steadfast_ , located close to a near-identical TGV store. It even had the same access plate number. Laid down, she could have touched all four walls easily and sat, as she was now, her head was little more than a few handspans from the low roof. It had become their bolt-hole, a tiny haven, sealed off from the rest of the galaxy in its own surreal little bubble.

She'd brought a blanket the last time she'd been here, and it was spread on the floor, its edge crumpled together into a backrest where she leaned against the far wall of the tiny access space, whose five small status lights pressed against her shoulder blades. She'd been here an hour now.

He hadn't come.

Why was he making this so hard? It wasn't because he didn't want to be with her, she knew that—she _knew_. She murmured a curse under her breath, but when she closed her eyes she saw again that brief, wayward flash of a grin he'd let slip, and her lips settled out to a reluctant smile as she cursed him again, this time with amusement.

Just beginning to unravel him, she couldn't fathom that odd combination of all or nothing, as if he wanted to do so much, to tear free of self-imposed limits…but something held him in check. In the brief moments when he relaxed his guard he seemed…what? A wayward will shoehorned into an endlessly self-depreciating mind that was so clearly just itching to cut free, as his constant dry, irreverent remarks bore witness to. He seemed at times pathologically determined not to become involved in anything, in any way… and yet if he did commit, it was total and absolute. Onboard the _Steadfast_ in the battle over Rhen Var, it was as if a switch had been flicked in his head.

So where did that leave them?

She understood his hesitance—respected the loyalty and the adherence to duty that it represented—but that only made it all the more possible, to her. They both knew the rules, and they both knew how to live their lives within them. He understood that—understood her. Of anyone she'd ever met, he _understood_ her. The empathy, the parallel paths that their lives had taken, meant that their connection ran so much deeper. Why, then, was she less sure than ever where she stood with him…and more sure than ever where she wanted to be.

But it wouldn't be tonight. She'd waited long enough; despite that brief flash of a smile, tonight was a no-show.

It was when she rose with a sigh that she caught it; that brief, brooding flare in the Force that she'd come to recognize as Luke. He must be near; must have come all the way here and then halted close by, resolve wavering. Yet he hadn't walked away; had eventually reached out himself to see if she was still hidden here, waiting.

Licking her lips she sat back down, letting a purposeful sense of expectant patience fill her thoughts, for him to read. It didn't matter that he wasn't sure; she was. So she'd wait. As long as was necessary.

.

He'd almost walked away twice. Mara had listened, senses straining, as the whole struggle played out in the corridor outside in silence. Knowing that any attempt to intervene would have ended with his somehow creating the excuse he needed to back off entirely. He wanted this, but…as with so much of his life, he was at war with himself, desiring and burned by the same need. So she'd waited…and said nothing when he'd entered, letting the fragile moment slowly settle out.

Now they sat together as they had in this same space onboard the _Steadfast_ , the blanket scattered with a few bright foil wrappers from the candy Mara had stocked up on during a short visit to the civilian personnel levels of Fondor's shipyards.

"You didn't bring Stardrops." It was a safe, neutral conversation starter, as he sieved through the remaining wrappers.

"Stardrops make my teeth ache, just to look at them." She was laid, as usual, with her back leaning against his chest, head resting on his collar bone and her legs stretched out before her so that her feet touched the small entrance hatch in the confined space. Luke sat on the floor leaning against the wall with his back against the run of system maintenance lights whose pale blue glow was the only illumination in the small, low cubby hole, his knees bent up to either side of Mara, who used them as armrests as she spoke, keeping the subject safe.

"If you want some, you know where the ship's store is. I saw on the manifest that they're fully stocked ready to fly, right down to optional consumables."

"I don't have any credits."

"You're kidding me," Mara deadpanned. "I've seen your accounts."

"I haven't tried to access any in over a year. I think they're frozen." He was playing with one of the empty foil wrappers as he spoke, folding it into a tiny glider.

"Oh…we might have frozen them about six months ago…sorry. We were trying to flush you out."

"You should have left them open and followed the trail." Trade talk came up, even here. It was too much a part of their lives not to, and there was comfort in a shared familiarity—even this.

"You just said you didn't use them."

"I'm not stupid." His air of offence that she'd thought for even a moment he might, made her smile.

"Well then what was the point of leaving them open?"

"What was the point of freezing them?" He threw the tiny folded glider. It flipped a sharp loop mid-air then nose-dived, and he muttered under his breath and reached for another wrapper.

"You do know you can unfreeze them, right? You're effectively the Emperor's second in command, now. You have the legal jurisdiction to do pretty much anything."

"Anything?" His reply was dryly deadpan save for the slightest lilt at the last, its meaning clarified as his fingertips brushed lightly against her neck, taking her chin to turn her head as he leaned down to a kiss. Mara tilted back without hesitation, eyes closing and arm lifting to bring her fingers into that tangle of soft, unruly black hair.

No doubt, in this. No ambiguity. No reticence, when she reached to touch him. These brief moments of shared ease were the reason that she could fight. The reason she _would_ fight, for this. Because every one—every single one—was worth it. Still laid against him she arched back to deepen the kiss as his arm slid down across her ribs to rest at the join of her hip and her crooked leg, making the sensitive skin there heat to his touch.

He pulled back, eyes closed still, head tilted slightly as he tensed infinitesimally against something unseen, and she wanted to say, _You still sense it don't you?._

That shiver, that trailing edge of dark portent which shadowed every kiss.

But to do that would be to acknowledge it. To pick at that single thread would be to unravel everything. She knew it as surely as he sensed that brief echo of darkness. And she couldn't do that. She couldn't let this go. Whatever the cost, wherever it took her, her need for this remained the greater driving force past which she chose not to see.

So she said nothing. Simply watched him exhale in silence as the baleful tremor passed, her thoughts already anticipating the bright burning flare of the next kiss, whose all-consuming heat would surely white out any doubt…until that last brief sting of darkness.

His eyes opened slowly, face shadowed as he'd leaned forward…and for the first time those dyed-brown eyes seemed wrong to her; too harsh, too stark, too dark for his disposition as he loosed a quiet smile.

They settled to comfort now, the restless need to act dissipated, though desire remained unquenched, and both knew it. Still, he leaned back, leaving her laid on her back in his lap, his bent leg a backrest for her as she hesitated, searching his eyes.

"Why did you stay?"

Dark eyes blinked, thrown by the question. "What?"

"When we first brought you onboard over Rishi, why did you stay? Palpatine told Shira that you could have left any time." Of course, Palpatine hadn't seen Luke in those first few days. Hadn't seen his physical condition. He barely seemed that much different now, still gaunt and drawn, though never frail.

He settled back, leaning his weight onto the heel of one hand as the other reached out to take a lock of her hair, a brief shrug lifting his shoulders. "Nowhere else to go."

Which was exactly what Palpatine had said. Did he know Luke so well, when Mara knew him not at all? She'd hoped…

"And maybe…" he added quietly, eyes on the lock of hair which he threaded through his fingers, "maybe I stayed for…"

He broke off, and Mara tensed slightly. "Go on?"

Humor softened his voice. "Are you gonna make me say it?"

"Yep."

"You already made me come here tonight. Isn't that enough?"

"Not even nearly."

He loosed a brief, breathy laugh, the rise of his ribcage moving her head where she rested against him. "What else do you want?"

"I want to know this is real," she said quietly. "I want one damn thing in our lives to be real and normal."

He was silent, but it was in empathy rather than avoidance, she knew. So she raised her brows as he looked back at her. "I'm not afraid to ask him. You don't know what he'll say. He—"

"I know exactly what he'll say."

"So that's it. You're going to abdicate all responsibility to him for every single decision in your life?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Just barely."

"No, I'm here. That's it. I'm here." There was finality to his words that spoke of more than just the moment, and he fell to silence, as if assessing his own claim.

Mara stared for a few moments, searching his face, then shook her head. "You'll just go cool again, I know it. You run hot and cold constantly. Or I might see sense."

He remained silent…but there was something within it now. Something in the tenseness of the muscles of his chest as he breathed; in the muted pounding of his heart, visibly shifting the dark shirt he wore where it rested tight against him.

"Luke?"

He jolted back to the moment, seeming increasingly jittery. "See sense? We can't have that. In fact, let's just stop it in its tracks, right now."

"I think we've already done that just by being here, when we know…" She floundered, suddenly feeling the weight of it all.

"No," he said quickly. "We've just given it a little knock. I'm talking about turning it upside down and shaking it. Then maybe it'll leave us alone."

A smile twitched at her lip. "And how do you propose we do that?"

"Interesting choice of word, there…" His voice had taken on a tentative edge. "You're right, let's make one damn thing in our entire lives normal and real."

"This is real." It seemed so, now, in the unspoken depth of his every pause.

"No, this is _safe_. This is cautious and obedient and dutiful. Let's have something in our lives that's our own. We keep dancing round the edges of this…let's make it _real_."

"I don't know wha—"

"Marry me."

Mara laughed, amused at his abrupt intensity. "Right."

"Is that a yes?"

She stared, uncertain what this was, taken unawares in that way that only he could do. "Hey, you turn up a magistrate and I'll say yes right now."

He was utterly unfazed. "Well it just so happens that I still hold command of the _Steadfast_. That makes me, officially, a ship's captain. Captains still retain the jurisdiction to marry in the Rim systems, so…"

"We're onboard the _Executor_ , not the _Steadfast_."

"Actually any ship in the same fleet is still lawful." She could hear the grin in his words, and couldn't help but do the same; it was infectious.

"I'm also not entirely sure of the legality of marrying yourself, _Captain_. Or the ethics."

"Screw ethics. Captain; ship; boy, girl. What more do we need?" He had that look in his eyes, reckless and wayward and energized. Aware of the transgression, the insanity of it, the deliberate defiance…

"Now you're scaring me, because I don't know whether you're kidding or not."

"Marry me. Here, now."

She'd stilled, mouth dry, numbed thoughts clambering for something to say. Because suddenly he was the one pushing forward, and she was the one left reeling at the momentum. What had he said earlier tonight, when she'd pressed him? That this was terrifying. And it was. It was also exhilarating. Incredible.

Insane.

She blinked. He didn't, dark eyes a mirror to…what?

"You're actually serious," she husked. "We…we'd need licenses, witnesses…"

"Technicalities," he dismissed, a brief twitch of a smile telling her that he knew exactly what she was doing.

"Don't you need some kind of official who holds legal office to ratify it?"

"Apparently as the Emperor's acting second in command, I'm told that my rank grants me the legal jurisdiction to do _any_ thing," Luke repeated Mara's earlier remark back to her with dry, teasing amusement. Then he was serious again, dark eyes meeting hers. "You want real? This is it, this is real. This is the realest thing I've ever done. Here."

She looked down as he took another gold foil candy wrapper and began folding it in on its own length over and over to make a narrow strip. Then he coiled it into a hoop and folded the ends neatly back into each other using his little finger as a guide. When he'd finished, he held a small gold hoop. "Seal the deal."

"You don't even know me." She was playing for time, heart pounding, thoughts in freefall as she struggled to grasp the moment—

He paused a beat, to look her in the eye. "I know you."

It was said so simply, but there was awareness behind it, a sense of incredible intimacy that only he could claim. He knew her completely and utterly, in a way that no-one else ever could, every memory, every hope, every hidden fear laid bare…

- _Then why are you still here?-_

She'd never done this before, ever. Never once reached out through the Force to anyone save Palpatine. Never wondered if she could. Never wanted to.

The smile he gave in understanding was effortlessly sincere, his words a whisper tinged with bafflement that she hadn't known this already. "How could I ever leave?"

He leaned in to kiss her again, passion and desire and raw need smoldering undisguised within it, a moment of honesty so real and so intense that it both warmed and burned her in the same moment.

"Marry me," he murmured softly, lips an inch from hers. "Make this real."

He lifted her hand—and paused partway into sliding the folded foil ring onto her finger. "Yes?"

"I think there's typically a few more words than that."

"Typical's overrated. Yes?"

This was insane—he was, sometimes, when the mood was on him. How could she not love that?

"...Yes."

He grinned, and slipped the folded foil ring onto her finger. It was warm, from his touch. "I now pronounce us indelibly tied."

"By a piece of foil I could unfold and rip up?"

"No," he smiled, as he leaned forward to kiss her again. "By this."

.

.

.

.

.

He'd thought she was still sleeping, Mara knew. The shipboard lights hadn't even begun their slow brightening to emulate dawn for the upcoming personnel shift when she felt him move beside her, his breath on her neck. They were entwined, skin to skin, in the single bed in her quarters, the blanket tangled about them. It was still an hour before reveille when he edged carefully away, silent save for the gentle crush of fabric as he pulled free. She didn't move, eyes still closed, listening.

Dressing in silence, he paused at the edge of the bed to crouch close to her, and eventually loosed a long, low sigh. As he moved away and pressed the door release she spoke quietly without turning her head.

"Luke?"

He froze for a second… "I had orders to be onboard the _Steadfast_ by reveille. I'll…be back when I can."

She didn't turn, didn't speak…yet he felt somehow compelled to repeat it;

"I _will_ come back."

.

.

.


	14. Chapter 14

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

.

.

Stood to the front of the _Steadfast's_ bridge, Luke watched in silence as she held her position to the flank of her flagship, her angle and distance calculated with military precision to hold her a fraction clear of the disruptive wash of its multiple engines as they throttled to full power. It was a rare thing, to see the massive bulk of a Star Destroyer dwarfed by any other superstructure, but even the _Steadfast_ was rendered mediocre by the bristling hulk of the _Executor_ , over one hundred times her mass and firepower.

The immense dreadnought's sublight engines had been slowly firing up for almost an hour after days of tests and trials, and now rippled in a haze of distortion as they edged the colossal ship forward under her own power, maneuvering with the aid of multiple tugs. Her vast scale made every move seem ponderous as she angled away, the final heave tilting her a fraction— Then her construction moorings burst free with brief rushes of crystallizing air, fragmenting as they were jettisoned, their task complete.

For the first time the imposing, unassailable tonnage of a Super-class Star Destroyer powered ponderously free of Fondor Shipyards in a slow-motion ballet of brute power.

Just beyond the shipyard's limit a fleet of seven Star Destroyers and five frigates waited patiently to accompany it on what was to be both its inaugural voyage and its first battle—though if it did its job and intimidated sufficiently, the battle would be with words alone. If not…well then, it would be not only the first Super Star Destroyer to enter service, but would also have the rare distinction of both engaging in battle on its inaugural flight, and of having its first shots in that battle aimed towards another Imperial ship.

So they'd better be damn sure that everything was online by the time they reached the Moddell system, Luke knew, because Palpatine wouldn't hold back if Kessler refused him.

As it cleared the shipyards every other Star Destroyer in the vicinity began a slow roll, rotating on its axis to correct its horizon-orientation in relation to the hulking Super Star Destroyer as tradition dictated, in confirmation of its rank as the pre-eminent vessel present.

The launch should have been the event of the decade, the ultimate affirmation of Imperial superiority after the Death Star's catastrophic loss…instead, it was a comment on the sorry state of his Master's Empire that barely a handful of ships were present to bear witnesses to this incredible sight. And the number of people who were truly aware of what they were seeing in their deference to the _Executor_ as the Imperial fleet's flagship, could be counted in single figures.

He empathized completely with the massive dreadnaught's fate; the uniquely capable relic of a fading regime, created and shaped for the purpose of combat and nothing else, fated to be thrown into battle after battle to serve another's cause. It fired a driving desire to abandon his own destroyer's bridge in search of Mara, to drag her back to the tiny maintenance hatch in which they'd made their vows and tell her all this…try to make her understand. But she was onboard the _Executor_ with Palpatine, no doubt inspired anew by the grandeur of the moment.

Luke was due to return there himself at their first drop from lightspeed less than four hours out, relinquishing control of the _Steadfast_ to his first officer. Starship captains were ten-a-credit. Outside of actual combat, Palpatine still needed to keep those few people he trusted close to hand. Though right now even that didn't bother Luke, because it meant that he'd be back with Mara.

 _With Mara._

He felt his jaw tense as his eyes skipped across the imposing military flotilla without seeing, still trying to fathom the significance of his actions last night—the consequence.

Had he taken the only possible path that could keep him sane, right now…or had he made the mistake of his life—and damned them both, in doing so? Because still, within every kiss he felt that shiver of dark portent.

Yet to be together last night… The memory pulsed through him, twitching a brief smile to his lips. Maybe she was right, maybe knowing Palpatine's rules, and having lived their lives by them, they could somehow fit some kind of life together in between them.

They could do that, couldn't they?

He let out a brief, quiet breath, hearing the desperation in his rationalization. He'd been trained his whole life to analyze every problem from every perceivable angle. To identify and evaluate the risks and the pitfalls, to strategize the best course to a successful conclusion…so then why was he so willfully blind, in this? Because that _was_ what he was being. He knew that.

Han's warnings from long ago filtered to the surface; 'All or nothing'. That had been Han's constant rebuke; 'Think about what you do before you do it, because you overreact. You're all or nothing'. It was how Luke was, he'd said—what he'd had to become, to survive. To stay sane. It was, Han had always claimed, the thing which had kept Luke with Palpatine for so long, despite everything. Was it that which kept him here, still?

Was it defining his actions now, with Mara?

All or nothing. Somewhere in the back of Luke's mind, the boy who had been raised in his Master's shadow still believed that Palpatine must, by definition, be right when he claimed that there could be no compromises—that a division of attention amounted to a division of loyalty, and that was intolerable. His faith in his Master was a fraction of its previous depth, yet his loyalty remained. Surely being with Mara was a good thing, Mara's steadfast allegiance reviving and reinforcing his own.

Validations. At least he wasn't so far gone as to fail to see them, when he spouted them.

Was that what drew him to her? That strength. That resolute, unwavering clarity of purpose? His own desire to feel it again. To have something in his life in which he believed, to the very core of his being?

…Or was it the secret wish to pull her free, and open her eyes to the truth?

All or nothing.

The low tone of a lightspeed calculation dragged him from his reverie as it sounded across the bridge, followed by the regulated pip of a synchronized fleet-wide countdown; the Empire was nothing if not efficient.

"Sir, do we have confirmation to proceed?"

"You have confirmation," Luke said quietly; the correct reply. He knew them all—had been raised from the age of seven to recite them, word-perfect…even the ones that were empty lipservice.

A second later realspace jolted briefly, then curled in upon itself into a swirling tunnel of drawn-out light as each Star Destroyer accelerated in regimented sync. Staring into the maelstrom Luke pondered again on Shira's prediction, given with blithe indifference yet total certainty, that he and Mara were too different to possibly hold together. Remembered with uneasy clarity that resonant rush of portent that pulsed within the Force with every kiss.

Were they doomed to failure? Was there something bigger which kept pace, even now—something he'd always carried within him? Some echo of dark fate that a child of seven had unknowingly set in motion when he'd first been brought to Coruscant and, with insufficient words to categorize, had seen only shadows and tangles closing in.

 _Shadows and tangles…_ amid the vortex of light which surrounded the ship, he saw them still.

Was it fate…or simply his own doubts?

.

.

.

.

.

.

Leia settled into the chair beside Han, in the conference room on the Command Level of _Home One_. Painted in pale blue and aqua it was restful despite its size and purpose, though not a single face at the table looked mollified. There were fifteen in all, from Mon Mothma and Crix Madine, through the levels of Intel and Defense, Security, Strategy, Fleet Logistics—even a few who held no specific rank or office—who between them comprised the High Command Security Council and its advisors.

To the center of the large circular table a hologram floated above eye level, drawing Leia's gaze. The same systems, again; same troubles, more than likely. She shouldn't be surprised. She'd been uneasy for weeks now, aware of an aberrant tremor of volatility within the Force which defied any attempt to lock it down, a constant, inexorable sensation. Part of her wondered if it was her brother—certainly there had been questions asked, when she'd explained that in her own experience this type of shadow-flux originated in Darkness, which was what made it all the harder to lock down. No-one save Mon Mothma and Han knew her connection to Luke, of course, though everyone around this table was high enough placed to know that a Sith had survived Corsin. And knowing, their suspicion had naturally turned to him.

Yet Leia had…at the very least, withheld information. Something she'd never done in her entire life, before. Important information.

Because she hadn't told them about her brother's presence at Rhen Var; hadn't told them that he had been onboard the Imperial Star Destroyer that had opened fire on the _Kathol's Pride_.

She didn't know why—and yet at the same time, she knew _exactly_ why.

A Sith, on the bridge of an Imperial Star Destroyer. Given his heritage, the logical assumption would be that he had returned to the Empire that had raised and trained him, despite Han's adamant claims that Luke Antilles had no particular loyalty to the Empire itself, and no interest in self-serving ascendancy.

But it would have been a hard one to argue, given his past, had she admitted to Luke's presence onboard that Destroyer. Every rational, impartial mind at this table would come to the same logical conclusion: Siths and power-mongering went hand in glove. _That_ was his heritage.

Only it wasn't—not to Leia. To her, he was simply her brother. Perhaps…perhaps not _simply_ that _._ But he was her brother. And he had stopped the attack. Hardly the innate aggression of a true Sith.

And yet… Still, that tremor in the Force remained, a constant, unremitting shiver in the dark of every shadow, which folded intangibly in on itself with practiced ease…

A movement from Han to her right caught Leia's eye, as he nodded briefly at the equally tired-eyed Crix Madine, on the opposite side of the table. Both ex-Imperial defectors, they had the wary kinship of a shared past, tempered by a reluctance to make that seem too relevant to their present lives. But like Madine, Han's seat at this table was a testimony to his value here. His wide knowledge of fleet actions and procedures at a day-to-day operations level, combined with the hidden and inscrutable world inside the highest echelons of the Imperial palace, had earned him his place.

And they needed him—they needed both of them, if this latest rush of Intel over the last month was to be unraveled. They had not so much unearthed as been overwhelmed by the influx of incoming data of late, as something unprecedented ran like wildfire throughout the Imperial fleet. Ex-Imperials such as Madine and Han were taking a lot of the heat in terms of expectations that they'd be able to string all this Intel and their own past experiences together, and come up with a feasible response.

There were daily reports of altered shipping routes, with Star Destroyers missing their standard rotations to turn up in entirely different sectors. Reports of an unknown and growing fleet which dropped in and out of hyperspace as it navigated within the vast Imperial-held Colony regions, its numbers increasing with every sighting.

Far more dangerously, reports were beginning to surface of the flagship which led it…and it was this which had prompted today's somber meeting, as Mon Mothma stood to bring them to order.

Reaching forward, she pressed the control panel before her…and the image of Fondor's long-dormant Super Star Destroyer—the threat that they'd tried twice to eradicate before it had even been launched—loomed large over the assembled room, hushing them to silence.

"The Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ , the largest Dreadnaught ever constructed," Mon said gravely. "It stands twelve times the length of an _Imperial_ -class Star Destroyer, with a combined battery of over five thousand turbolasers and ion cannons, and two hundred-fifty concussion missile arrays. Fully stocked, it carries twelve squadrons of fighters, two hundred specialist combat and support ships, three prefabricated front-line garrison bases and over five thousand dedicated combat vehicles. Fully manned, it is capable of carrying around eighty-eight thousand crew and troops, and six years of consumables. It is a mobile fortress of immense power capable of appearing anywhere, designed specifically to turn the tide of any battle."

She always launched into the crux of the problem, Leia knew. Han said her opening addresses were like the first punch in a barfight.

Mon had paused to let this sink in, and now that she had everyone's rapt attention, she turned the floor over to Commander Cracken, head of Intel. "Commander?"

Cracken stood, sporting the same tired and wired expression as everyone else there. In his mid forties, he had a gentle, almost benign face—that of a kindly uncle or long-suffering father. In fact he had one of the most coolly analytical minds Leia had ever met, razor sharp and systematic in every facet. That he had known both Republic and Imperial rule, and chosen to dedicate two decades of his life to reinstate the former, was one of the most cogent arguments Leia could imagine.

"The _Executor_ has always been reliably identified as remaining dormant at Fondor since the fragmentation of the Empire. This was due to the expiry of the date-sensitive command codes in operation before the Emperor's death, which were only ever designed to bring its systems to test status." His finger slid across his datapad to change the massive central hologram to a more distant image of the _Executor_ , still against Fondor shipyards, but with banks of running lights picking out its surface detail.

"What you're looking at now however, are images from five days ago. Keep watching…and you can clearly see that _Executor_ is moving under its own power. It's making visible course changes with no tugs present. This is not its sister-ship, which remains inactive, moored at the Kuat Drive Yards. And to our knowledge, it's not a hoax. Despite all previous Intel to the contrary, we must change the _Executor's_ status from 'unlikely to launch', to 'fully active'. This thing _is_ operational." He paused, expression stony. "We also have multiple confirmations that both Fondor and Kuat have been withdrawing standard Imperial-class Star Destroyers from their customary routes during the same time period. All their standard rotations and operations have undergone markable changes."

Han moved, uneasy. "Withdrawn to where?"

"Back to the Fondor System itself, to constitute part of the new fleet which you can see forming in the last image here, we believe. This is it—this is the Ghost Fleet."

It had gained its name early on, when Intel had been struggling to keep up with multiple sightings without a single concrete fact. Leia glanced to Han, uneasy. He tilted his head a fraction, lips pursing just slightly, the message clear: Not yet.

He was the only one who knew the truth about Rhen Var, and after a long discussion they'd agreed to keep the facts quiet until they had more information. Han's faith in her brother was unwavering, despite everything; Luke wasn't an Imperial. He couldn't name a single thing that would have lured her brother back, or held him once he was there.

And her sense of Luke at Rhen Var had been a split-second, he'd argued—a brief flash of awareness, under pressure, with all hells breaking loose around them. What if it wasn't the obvious—what is she was mistaken?

She wanted—she _wanted_ to believe that…

They needed more facts—and to do that, they needed to track Luke's actions. They needed to get to him. But it seemed like the entire galaxy was conspiring to put obstacles in their way…and Leia wasn't entirely sure that at least half of them weren't her brother's doing.

But that little spark within held her quiet; held faith, even as Cracken recited the blows.

"Fondor military docks are always locked down to any civilian traffic, and we know that they still have the fully linked eight-shield stealth array which originally protected the _Executor_ from prying eyes during its early construction. That's been cited as inactive for well over a year. But in the past month leading up to the _Executor's_ sighting, Fondor has become a fortress." Again Cracken paused, to let people draw their own inevitable conclusions as to what Ghost Fleet was centering around. "We do have agents inside however, and though Intel coming out is patchy, we have eye-witness reports that the fleet is now fourteen Destroyers strong, with around the same number of smaller frigates and carriers. We also believe that the linked stealth shield array may be powered up. We have no reliable intel on that, however. Just general power consumption figures."

Leia straightened to say what was on everybody's mind, though no-one had wanted to voice it. "Is this in-fighting, or a hostile fleet—are they preparing for a major offensive against the Alliance?"

"We're working on that," Cracken said tiredly. "At this time all we can confirm is that there have been multiple sightings of a major fleet moving within the Colony regions between Fondor and Kuat. Given the ship registrations involved, we can be pretty sure that the Kuat and Fondor sectors, and their spacedocks and construction facilities, have negotiated some kind of alliance. That's the spark here, and it would, simply on strength and numbers, put them as the third largest coalition in Imperial space. If we factor in the existence of an operational Super Star Destroyer, it may well bring them out on top. This is a major event, on any terms. This is a game-changer."

"Why now," Madine asked. "Moff Sekati and Moff Kiyoma have never shown any desire to co-operate previously—why now?"

"We don't know," Cracken admitted, keying the holo to change from that disturbing image of the _Executor_ dwarfing the Star Destroyers about it, to a galaxy map with hyperspace lanes highlighted. "This is very sudden, with no forewarning, no intel on advance talks, nothing."

For a moment Leia felt a pang of hope that the cause of all these changes was elsewhere, in other's hands, but Cracken's next words unknowingly leached at least some of that hope away.

"What we do know is that if the show is being run by either Moff Sekati or Moff Kiyoma, then it's remotely—both have been positively identified in their own territories at the same time as the Ghost Fleet was seen congregating around the Yag'Dhul node of the Corellian Trade Spine hyperspace route…that's its last confirmed position. We also know the fleet is no longer there. Given that Fondor lies Coreward of Yag'Dhul, this means that they've likely traveled further out Rimward, taking them through four separate Imperial strongholds, from Moff Ferrin, through Moff Ecke and Moff Kato's, and eventually into Moff Kessler's territory."

"Is there a chance that any of those Moffs would prove receptive?" Mon asked.

"We have dedicated units on it, now. From first glance my people say Moffs Ecke and Kato are outside possibilities under pressure, but then if you'd asked a month ago, I wouldn't have put a single credit on Moff Sekati and Moff Kiyoma ever forming an affiliation."

"I guess there's nothing like a Super Star Destroyer turning up in orbit around your key planet to make you weigh up the pro's and con's of a situation," Han drawled grimly. "What about Moff Kessler?"

"Last turn-wise Imperial territory in the outer Rim systems," Cracken shrugged, glancing to General Koehler.

Koehler nodded, taking the cue. "We've chipped away at Kessler's borders for a while, but with little to gain in comparison to the commitment of troops and ships, efforts have moved to the more central Mid-Rim territories. He has an adequate fleet, but it's covering a huge area which spans all the way out into the Wild Regions, with a lot of uncharted systems and very little development."

"He has a few known affiliations in place, from neighboring Imperial territories such as Moff Kato," Cracken picked up again. "Nothing of note. He is, however, well documented as ambitious and aggressive, which was how he ended up getting posted to the Rim systems in the first place. I doubt very much that he would collaborate or capitulate with any outside body, and given the span of his territory, it would be as difficult for Imperial forces to mount an aggressive take over as it was for our own forces. But if Ghost Fleet did get a foothold there, then we may find ourselves in a difficult position, tactically."

"We have no indication as yet that the fleet is hostile." The words weren't a naïve hope on Admiral Ackbar's part, Leia knew. They were simply a testing of the facts.

"It's a fleet of Imperial Star Destroyers headed up by a Super Star Destroyer named the _Executor_ ," Han reminded. "Even if they're ignoring us right now in favor of easier pickings, that won't last."

Leia stared at the huge holo, understanding Han's concern. "If this fleet either allies with or absorbs Moff Kessler's territory, they're on our borders."

"If it also absorbs Moff Kato's territories, then they hold borders to a good section of two contiguous sides of us," Cracken said grimly. "The words 'pincer movement' come undeniably to mind."

The room fell to considered silence, until Mon Mothma lifted her head, eyes on the bigger picture. "Could we be looking at the first stages of a re-unification of the Empire, here?"

Cracken sighed, eyes taking on a hunted look as he fell back on the same response. "We're working on that. At present we've seen no reaction to any of this from Coruscant and the Core sectors, assuming they also have access to the intel. But the Core systems are in a strong position, and have little need to form alliances. Though I would caution that information's changing rapidly at the moment, and getting new agents into useful positions within the Core is nigh-on impossible. All we can reliably say is that we had no indication prior to this that any treaty was even close to being on the cards between Fondor and Kuat, let alone others. Nothing. This sudden unification of several high-profile Moffs is unprecedented, and I get the feeling that we're looking at the start of a campaign, not the culmination of one." He fell to silence for long seconds, his apprehension palpable. "With the caveat that has stood for the last year—that there's no readily identifiable stand-out commandant at this time—I'm sorry to have to agree that it's possible… At this point, a re-unification is actually a valid and very dangerous possibility."

"Perhaps we should prepare a precautionary task force to the edge of Alliance-held territory which borders with Grand Moff Kessler," Mon said, glancing to General Madine, who nodded as she continued. "The _Halcyon_ and the _Kathol's Pride_ however, should be committed to trying to track down our elusive Ghost Fleet."

Leia straightened, aware that if the _Pride_ was being committed to this operation, then so was she. "The _Pride_ is still in dock for repairs, after the Rhen Var attack. We'd intended to take her on shakedown ops in the Thanium sector following that, towards the Rishi System."

Mon paused to meet Leia's eye, knowing that Rishi had been Luke's last confirmed location. "This is in connection with the disturbance you've sensed?"

Leia glanced down. "An attempt to rule out certain possibilities, yes."

Mon's eyebrow arched. "You have new information?"

"…No," Leia said, torn between the Alliance's needs and her growing desire to track down her brother. "It's simply an attempt to pick up old threads, whilst the _Pride_ is in repair docks close to Rishi. It's…something I need to do."

Mon stared for long seconds, then nodded. "You have two days after the _Pride_ has been repaired, Jedi Skywalker. Then we have greater need of you." Her benevolent gaze took on a hard edge. "I very much hope for all our sakes that the disturbances you sense and the Ghost Fleet are not connected."

Leia glanced down, biting at her lip, well aware that the odds were against it.

.

.

.

.

.

Mara transferred over to the _Steadfast_ half a day out from the pre-agreed rendezvous with Moff Kessler, the meeting located in what he assumed to be the safe territory of his own Moddell sector, well into the interior of the systems he held. As per the plan only the ISD _Steadfast_ had made the initial journey in. under Luke's command. The rest of Palpatine's fleet held back so that their arrival en-masse would carry the impact necessary to ensure that Moff Kessler could be cleanly extracted from his own fleet with minimum opposition from both himself and his officers.

There had been a flurry of planning onboard the _Steadfast's_ bridge before they had taken their leave of the main fleet, coordinating lightspeed entry and exit times, precise co-ordinate transmissions to be broadcast from their shuttle, back-up extraction points, comm codes and frequencies… Now, as she and Luke finally sat alone in the crew compartment of a Lambda shuttle on its way over to Kessler's Star Destroyer, it occurred to Mara that this was the first time that she had stolen a brief block of time truly alone with…what did she call him now? She had no idea if their marriage was even vaguely legal, but she did know that the commitment had been made in good faith, on both sides. She studied Luke where he sat to one side of the Lambda shuttle's otherwise empty crew compartment, eyes on the datapad he'd brought onboard.

"What are you reading?"

"Nothing."

Mara arched her eyebrows. "Well then why are you staring at the screen?"

He gave her that one without argument, his thoughts elsewhere. "Still trying to crunch the numbers on getting the necessary resources as quickly as possible from Kuat and Fondor for the Death Star. Half the galaxy must be putting effort into tracking down Palpatine's fleet by now. I don't like us just sitting still in the Moddell sector until we can get the Death Star mobile."

"You don't know how much work Kessler has put into it in the last year, yet. It may be closer to completion than you think."

"Yeah, blind hope's always a good policy to base your plans on," he said absently. "Especially when you have to report them to Palpatine."

"You shouldn't have that kind of information on a shuttle when we're landing in Kessler's Star Destroyer."

"I'll void it before we land." His attention remained on the screen.

"Do it now."

He didn't look up, voice distant. "I'll do it before we land."

Mara stared for a second. "You know, for someone who can read minds, you don't seem to be picking up on the vibes I'm sending out here."

His glanced once, briefly, then looked back to the screen and voided the data. Abandoning it, he rose to walked close without hesitation, bending to a crouch before her where she sat, his head tilted up, dark brown eyes unguarded. "You have my undivided attention," he smiled.

It was utterly strange that he had this within him, this capacity for warmth and spontaneity; for compassion. Passion, yes; despite his myriad defenses, he seemed to Mara forever raw, painfully vulnerable, as if a single word could slay him—as if his own wildly conflicting emotions might do the same at any moment. But all that antagonism and boiling frustration held protected at their core a spark of something else entirely. Something gentle and benign for her alone, all the more tantalizing for its brief flickers.

A smile crept across her lips—how could it not? "…Now I don't know what to say."

"Say this,"

He leaned up slightly, hand reaching to caress the back of her neck as he brought her head down to his, their lips meeting in a flush of desire which fired every nerve with a warm glow. Without thinking she reached out as he rose slightly from his crouch to kneel upright, level with her now, the kiss deepening, carrying every thought along with it. Her legs wrapped about him as he leaned in, pulling him closer, captured for her alone. Long seconds held them lost, protected in this cocoon of their own making… and then it bled through like ink in water, that infusion of darkness which tainted every kiss. His head twitched briefly and he pulled back—gently, without making it obvious…but she knew.

She wouldn't be undone by it. Wouldn't lose this closeness to the brief burn which scalded every kiss. Instead she moved with him to maintain body contact, her lips barely touching his, the craving to push for more a battle of desire over will as they breathed in synch.

"Wow, I'm a good conversationalist," she murmured.

He grinned. "Maybe I'm a good listener."

"You have your moments," she conceded. It would break this one, she knew that, but; "Luke…do you know what it is?"

He dropped instantly back onto his heels, looking away. "It's nothing. Ignore it."

"How can I, when you can't?"

"I can. I do."

He leaned up again, looking to prove it, but Mara rocked back.

"I don't want you to have to."

Luke sighed and rose, slipping free as she reached for him. "Well then what do you want? I can't make it go away, I can't stop what's…" He let out a breath, to expel his rising frustration. "It's not you, it's not your fault. It's me."

"How do you know that?"

A brief, ironic smile twitched his lip. "Most things generally are."

"So you don't _know_."

"It's me," he said with bleak finality, eyes distant. "It's…the future, the past. It's shadows and tangles."

"It's what?"

He seemed momentarily unsettled by his own words, then snapped back to moment, shaking his head rapidly. "Nothing. It's nothing. We need…we need to concentrate on what we're doing, here. We have a mission."

Mara held silent for long seconds, attempting to unpick all that he'd said…but he was right; now wasn't the time. With Moff Kessler's flagship the _Kreiger_ looming ever closer through the viewports, they needed to get their heads in the mission.

She wasn't particularly nervous at arriving as the advance party, traveling over from the _Steadfast_ with only Luke and a pilot, as Kessler would have expected on completion of the mission he had funded. She _was_ concerned, however, about just exactly how far Luke would choose to react should Kessler begin to push his buttons, as he had in the past.

She hadn't missed the fact that, when her arms had wrapped around him in that brief intimate kiss, they had brushed at the cool hard metal of a lightsaber hilt, worn in a horizontal snap-carrier threaded onto the standard-issue military belt at the small of his back. She knew that Palpatine had returned Luke's lightsaber before they'd even reached Fondor—he'd specifically asked her for it. What was interesting was that today was the first time that Luke had worn it.

Given the situation, to anticipate trouble was appropriate… The question was, was he actually looking to instigate it?

With that in mind, her next words were diplomatic.

"So…do we need to go over the plan again?"

"We go in, we extract Kessler, we transfer him over to Palpatine within the commontion of the _Executor's_ arrival, nullifying the need for a ship-to-ship firefight," Luke said flatly. "We save ships, we save face…he loses it."

"Alive," Mara emphasized. "The order was to extract Kessler alive."

Her worry wasn't that with his concentration elsewhere because of Kessler's provocation, Luke might miss the mental cue of Palpatine's incoming flagship that only he could sense. It was more that by the time Palpatine and the fleet arrived, Moff Kessler may already be history.

"Whatever." His vague reply did nothing to reassure her, his eyes remaining on the looming hulk of Moff Kessler's Star Destroyer as they neared the main landing bay entrance at its belly.

Mara continued to stare in expectant silence, knowing he'd sense it…

Eventually he turned. "Oh come on, give me this one. No-one said he couldn't be a little shaken by the time he boarded the _Executor_. No-one even specified just how exactly we got him there."

"I think the general inference was, _in one piece_."

"Well then someone should have said so."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'd assume the Emperor's expectation was that, as an Sith capable of mind reading, you would know that. But just in case, I'm saying it now."

His brow raised gamely. "Oh, so now all of a sudden you can tell me what to do?"

"That's not what I'm saying…but yes." She arched her eyebrows in mock-challenge, and he loosed a brief, rare smile. The corners of Mara's lips curled unstoppably in response, then she pressed on. "I'm just saying it'll pay to be reasonably respectful, because Moff Kessler might yet defer to Palpatine's authority. He might not be ousted from command."

His brief smile turned into a dry grin. "You think for one minute that Kessler might actually survive this? I know Palpatine, I know how his mind works. Kessler's history."

"Moff Sekati and Kiyoma still hold their commands."

"Because they were the first two. He needed allies when he approached them. He had no fleet, no power base, no assets—nothing. Plus he needed control without revealing his return to the galaxy at large. Now everyone's looking at Sekati and Kiyomi and trying to figure out what's going on, based on their being the only two ego's in play. They're making erroneous Intel extrapolations which lead to erroneous conclusions, because they have incorrect data to begin with. He needed a front, and Sekati and Kiyoma were high enough up the power ladder to be plausible, and loyal and smart enough to do exactly what he says."

Mara frowned. "Maybe he just needed some reliable commanders."

"He doesn't work like that. He doesn't think like that. Everything serves a greater goal by its omission or inclusion. They survived because he knew he needed a front, and he needed Moffs who specialize in organizing large-scale construction facilities, to finish the second Death Star. He needed resources and materials that Kessler clearly doesn't have, otherwise it would be finished already. They had value. They filled a specific need…but it's filled now. Which makes Kessler surplus to requirements."

"Kessler's held his territory and he's continued to advance the construction of the Death Star, all be it slowly."

"Palpatine already has two Moffs with the assets and the know-how to complete it to a tighter schedule. Kessler has nothing to offer save his power—and Palpatine can't hold that whilst Kessler's still around."

"He needs someone to maintain Imperial rule in this system—someone with a proven track record."

"Not Kessler. He's too volatile—that's how he ended up out in the Rim systems to begin with. He has a history of self-serving conceit. He's made no move since Corsin to hold the Empire together, he's simply cemented his own power and territories. Before, when Palpatine had the luxury of an Empire, Kessler could be tolerated because despite his ego he's actually a capable Moff. Now he's a liability, an asset to be stripped. The same traits that put him out here in the first place have continued to isolate him post-Corsin because he's made few real allies, meaning that no-one is likely to react if he's removed. His only use to Palpatine at this precise moment is to serve as an example. Proof for those who actually know the truth of his return, that Palpatine's still a force to be reckoned with if they try to undermine him—even within his own Moffs. And again, he can't do that by letting Kessler walk out of that meeting in one piece."

"Wait, you think… no, he may strip Kessler of command, but that's it. He won't kill him for no reason."

The shuttle flooded with light as it entered the _Kreiger's_ main landing bay, the turbulence of systems adjusting to a pressurized atmosphere jostling them both where they stood.

"No, he won't." Luke glanced to the hangar floor as the small shuttle rotated to land, huge wings lifting with a whine of oiled hydraulics, attention on the contingent of six stormtroopers and two officers waiting outside as he spoke. "But he has a reason. He has several. I just told them to you."

.

.

.

Kessler sat at his desk in his expansive office to the rear of the _Kreiger's_ bridge, with his second in command and one other officer to the side of the room, as well as two stormtroopers to either side of the door; he wanted an audience for this, it seemed.

Mara abruptly remembered Kessler's demand, in exchange for the use of the _Steadfast_ ; that on Luke's return he stood before Kessler's desk to either hand over the complete command codes, or acknowledge that he had failed in his duties, and accept the consequences. Clearly, given the _Steadfast's_ comm silence at Palpatine's command, Kessler had assumed the latter and decided that he'd get more enjoyment out of this meeting if he had an audience to witness it.

Mara glanced briefly to Luke, who took in the assembled audience but didn't object; knowing him, he was likely figuring the same as Kessler, though for entirely different reasons. Stopping before the desk he stood to smart attention, hands clasped military-style behind his back, though he made no salute.

"Commander Antilles," Kessler acknowledged with a wide grin. "How good of you to grace us with your presence…and in uniform, too. A rarity, if I'm not mistaken."

"I haven't had occasion to wear it in a while, Sir. But the situation has changed of late, and I expect to wear it a great deal in future."

"Indeed. I understand that Captain Beyer is…unavailable. As is Commander Tatton."

"You understand a great deal, considering that we were operating under a comm blackout."

"You were operating onboard _my_ vessel, Commander Antilles. You moved against my officers. Are you aware of the sentence for mutiny?"

"Mutiny assumes that all parties are operating under the same command, Moff Kessler. I thought I'd made it clear that at no time was I under yours."

Mara's eyes twitched to the officers, making a brief, subtle check; if they were wearing firearms then they were concealed, which would slow their reaction times.

"Technicalities," Kessler dismissed with confidence. "In fact, the sentence is the same for mutiny and piracy."

"Perhaps the word you're searching for is commandeer."

He was playing for time, Mara knew. Waiting for the optimum moment…

"You assume too much, if you think that even a full set of command codes would earn you a Captaincy in my fleet, Commander. Promotion here is by _my_ sanction, and that alone. You do not earn a commission by stepping unlawfully into dead men's shoes. Particularly when you're the one who killed them."

"I have no desire to serve in your fleet, Moff Kessler."

"Then it _was_ you who killed them?"

Tension was tightening Mara's stomach; timing was everything. They were here alone, with no backup, and aside from the necessity of playing for time, Luke was doing the equivalent of prodding a Krayt Dragon with a short stick for his own amusement. She clamped her jaw against the desire to tell him that in no uncertain terms.

"And yet you came back here," Kessler continued with a predatory smile. "I hope for your sake that you gained the command codes for me."

"I did not, Sir."

Kessler nodded, trying not to look too pleased. "And you remember our deal?"

"You misunderstand, Sir. I did not _gain_ them—I always had them. I'm simply stating my continued intention to withhold them."

The amusement slowly melted from Moff Kessler's face. "You already had the command codes which would have activated the Death Star?"

"You think the Emperor wouldn't trust me with such a thing? I hold greater secrets than that, by far."

She didn't sense the fleet's emergence from hyperspace, but familiar with every nuance of Luke's responses by now, she picked up on his muted reaction as he spoke those last few words. Saw the brief twitch in his stance which Moff Kessler clearly hadn't.

"And why exactly did you withhold them?" Kessler's temper was rising now, revealed in the snap of his curtailed words, and Mara saw exactly how this conversation was going to go. It was Luke's turn to smile.

"As I said to you when we first spoke, I chose my time to reappear with great care, Sir. Only it wasn't for your benefit, I'm afraid."

"You used it to your own ends," Kessler growled.

Mara glanced to the comlink on Kessler's desk as it pipped for attention. Luke purposely spoke over it, so that in the heat of the moment it was ignored.

"My own ends? No, Sir. Though as I said to you before, I don't serve your military and I certainly don't serve you."

Mara tensed for action, letting out a slow breath. This was surely as long as Luke could drag it out.

Kessler rose to his feet, outraged. "You have the gall to come in here and speak like that to my face?! You're nothing—no-one! You're a dead man walking."

The insistent pip of the comlink racked up the tension as the game that had been played to date took a dangerous turn. With nothing more than a tilt of his head, Luke moved from composed to threatening. "I would advise you to think very carefully about what you say, Moff Kessler. I'm here as an official representative of—"

"Official! You said yourself you have no military affiliations. Now there's a sudden change of heart? You think you can simply—"

Both Kessler and Luke continued speaking over each other without pause, neither raising their voices, but neither backing down or allowing themselves to be interrupted, each aware of the power-play that was so blatantly in use by the other.

"—acknowledge that a Star Destroyer was necessary to complete the mission," Luke continued. "Your personal intervention was not. We required your ship, Moff Kessler, not your aid."

Mara stared, barely able to make out what either said now, both voices curt and strong, though neither deigned to raise to the shout which would indicate that they had let their emotions get the better of them.

Kessler leaned forward. "You have no jurisdiction here that—"

"…But now that events are ready to move forward, I'm informed that we require your co-operation." Luke barely paused, as if in consideration of his own words. "Forgive me; your obedience."

The intentional provocation twitched Kessler straight in outrage. "In whose name—yours? The man who disappeared for nine months, and had to be forced back into the uniform that I don't believe he deserved in the first—"

An officer rushed into the ready-room without even knocking, his eyes wide. Kessler turned on him. "How _dare_ you barge—"

"Sir, a fleet of Star Destroyers have just emerged from lightspeed off our bow. Sir, they're led by the _Executor_!"

Kessler stared at the ensign, and in the moment of shocked silence Luke replied to his last question as if the interruption had not taken place, level voice shot through with an iron core. "In whose name? I serve the same man I've always served; Emperor Palpatine."

The moment hung taut, Luke composed and still as Kessler's eyes searched his, trying to unravel his meaning without success…how could he?

Eventually Luke's chin rose a fraction. "The Emperor—yours as well as mine—is very much alive and well, Moff Kessler. And he is currently onboard the _Executor_ , awaiting your presence. I'm commanded to take you there immediately."

The tense tableau of stunned uncertainty held as Kessler stared, eyes wide, and Luke remained at loose attention, shoulders lax, hands still clasped behind his back. Nobody moved, everyone waiting for someone else to break the moment and take the lead.

It was Kessler who straightened of course, pushing for control, even now.

"This is ridiculous! I won't play whatever games you think you can instigate here." He gestured to the stormtroopers to either side of the door as he spoke, and both moved their rifles to more useable positions as they set forward—

Mara was fast—she knew that. But she'd barely begun to turn, eyes on the officers, palm brushing the butt of the blaster at her hip, when a bright flare of amber-red hummed past her at head-height, close enough that she felt the interference of the energy field lifting her hair with its passage. The bass thrum of the lightsaber changed pitch as it swung, the field altering to allow for resistance—and behind her, she heard the clatter of armor weighed down by heavy limbs as the stormtrooper to the right of the door collapsed down. By the time she'd completed her turn, blaster leveled and tracking, the trooper's body was sprawled awkwardly on the floor behind her, his helmet—and his head—still rolling forward. To his left the second trooper had frozen, blaster half-lifted, the lower curve at the chin of his helmet blackened and smoking where Luke's lightsaber held an inch from his neck.

Mara's eyes flicked to Luke who stood poised, half turned about, extended arm steady, eyes on the stormtrooper though no-one in the silent room doubted that he was aware of everything around him as he spoke to Kessler, his tone not altered a whit.

"Let me clarify; I am commanded by the Emperor himself to take you onboard the _Executor_ by whatever means necessary, Moff Kessler. Either you abide by the military oath you made and come with me, now, or I will drag you from your own bridge by force. It's your choice, if you wish your men to see that. But you _are_ coming."

Kessler barely glanced to the officers by his side before Luke continued.

"I wasn't instructed to bring anyone else. Or to keep anyone else alive, in executing my duty."

.

.

Mara strode through the _Executor's_ spotless corridors side by side with…what? Her husband, her partner…her Sith? She stared at the backs of the eight stormtroopers who marched a half-step behind Grand Moff Kessler, a show of force halfway between an honor guard and a security detail, their regimented footfalls loud in the echoing hallways. Her mind buzzed with the day's events—with Luke's unhesitating actions, on the Emperor's behalf.

Again, as he had on the _Steadfast_ over Rhen Var, he had taken control and…no, more than that. He had taken _over._ Entirely. In those brief moments of single-minded focus he seemed so utterly capable of…anything. The Sith unleashed, trained to achieve any goal set him on his Master's behalf. In Kessler's office she'd been absolutely, unquestionably sure that had Kessler chosen to fight—to bring every stormtrooper on the damn ship down on Luke—the man, _the Sith_ , would still have achieved the coup. Would have accomplished his mission.

And where did that leave the other man she knew—the one who had crouched before her in the shuttle, capable of such warmth and compassion? Quite suddenly and with a pang of deep disquiet, she wondered again about the sting which darkened every kiss. Remembered his words: _"It's not you, it's not your fault. It's me."_

She glanced briefly to him as he strode beside her, eyes ahead, still intent on the mission in play, exuding cool aggression held in check. If he was a Sith—if he carried that with him in every action and thought—was _that_ was the darkness which invaded every kiss, tamped down and caged?

A brief thrill shot through her like a charge, lighting a spark of desire as her hand rose to brush against the chest of her uniform, where the ring that he had given her hung on a thong about her neck, unseen. His commitment, to her. Enough to reduce the Sith within to a brief flare that singed the edge of every kiss.

And if she'd agreed to marry a Sith…then surely she should accept that there would be sparks. That was the fun of playing with fire.

.

.

It was a big, echoing chamber set to the front of the Command Tower, close to its base. As such, it had an impressive view across the wide, angled hull of the citylike Super Star Destroyer, provided through a run of floor to ceiling viewports which comprised the entire span of its one external wall. Two stories in height, it was designed specifically for the Emperor's use, on what was always intended to be the flagship of his fleet.

For a full year, Mara had bitterly believed that he would never once step foot in it to take his rightful place on the raised dais which placed that magnificent view at his back. It fired a brief frisson, then, to walk in here now and see him in all his stately glory, the undeniably impressive representation of the might of his Empire glowing with a thousand lights at his back.

Shira stood to the left of the curve-backed throne, hands clasped behind her back, her black Ubiqtorate uniform flawlessly fitted. Palpatine himself rested with the wired poise of a hunting cat, his head down, features concealed in the folds of a heavy cloak and cowl, as he had with Moff Sekati.

It was a long walk, from the guard-lined entrance outside where the last of the Stormtroopers had come to a synchronized halt, to a point even halfway towards that grand dais. It was meant to be.

She glanced to Moff Kessler as he subconsciously slowed. To his other side, Luke pressed his hand to the small of Kessler's back without once breaking pace, forcing him forward. It seemed to goad the man more than anything, so that as he neared the dais he re-found his voice.

"And the opportunistic Lieutenant Brie. No surprise there," Kessler said loudly. "You should charge for your loyalty by the hour, my dear."

His eyes came to the cloaked and hooded man who sat without comment on the throne before her. "So this must be our supposed Emperor, returned to claim his throne. Go ahead—what fraudulent play are you spouting as to your absence? I hope it's better than your leashed Sith, here. He didn't bother to even try to maintain the cover Brie had so assiduously created for his whereabouts." He was full of bluster now, whipping himself into the righteous fury that only someone who believed himself untouchable could muster. "Go ahead—I'm sure you've rehearsed it enough, the four of you."

Mara bristled at his blatant disrespect, reaching out to grab at the back of his high military collar—

"Ah-ah, Mara." Sun-bright eyes glanced to her from beneath Palpatine's hood, his voice amused. "His insults weren't for you…or his fear."

Rising, Palpatine stepped forward from his new throne, making no attempt to curb his height or vitality, as he had with others. No attempt to be the ageing ruler. Instead he brought his hands to the hood of his gown and flung it back, shrugging free of the cloak altogether to let it pool at his heels as he stepped slowly forwards, straight and strong and coolly superior, the massed lights of the Super Star Destroyer glowing at his back as he stared down from the dais.

Kessler shifted on the spot, some of his bluster lost to surprise. "You don't even look like him."

"No? Come a little closer, Moff Kessler. Look into my eyes."

"Lenses can be faked."

"I didn't mean their color. You were always so proud of the fact that you could stare down any enemy, as I recall." Palpatine tilted his head, voice coolly daring. He stood like a man in his prime, shoulders back, head high. He stood like an Emperor. "Do that with me, now. Stare me down, and I might just let you keep control of this petty little portion of my fleet."

Again Kessler faltered…then regained his insolence, lifting a gloved hand to point as he looked to Shira. "This—this is who you follow? He's got no more right to call himself Emperor than I have! Whatever hoax you have in play I won't be party to it, and I won't cow-tow to it, either."

Palpatine glanced briefly to Shira as amusement twitched his thin lips, then back to Kessler. "I believe you. I do. You always lacked the vision to see anything beyond your own ambition…and that was always pitifully blind. That's what consigned you to the Rim systems in the first place…and now, with even that hanging in the balance, you still haven't the sense to see what will save either your petty career or your pathetic hide."

Kessler hesitated, more uncertain than ever. "…Who are you?"

Palpatine's smooth features slid to a self-possessed smile. "I am your Emperor."

A longer pause this time, as Kessler's voice broke just slightly. "Give me proof."

"Proof? A man I relegated to the edges of my Empire now thinks he can demand, of me— _me_?! Get down on your knees, little man. Put your head to the floor and I may let you live, despite your barefaced insolence."

It was in this moment that Mara realized how unlikely that was. Not because of Palpatine's words—she had seen him shout down others with far harsher threats than these, and knew he was shrewd enough to dismiss or exploit Kessler's provocations for his own ends even now, should he so choose. Not even because of all that Luke had said earlier; though Luke obviously didn't believe the same, she knew their master capable of incredible benevolence if he felt the individual deserved it. But it was none of that. It was far, far simpler…

Because he'd shucked his cloak, revealing his face. A man in his prime, rather than the ageing Emperor who all expected to see. He'd maintained his old persona with meticulous discipline before the other Moffs…but not here.

So then…why this? If he was going to execute the man, whether for self-serving disloyalty or as a necessity to advance his own return to power, why all this? There was no audience to watch and learn, no-one here but the faithful-and the fated.

Kessler was faltering…and Palpatine was barely getting started.

"You have failed, in every possible aspect of your duties as an Imperial Moff. You failed to exact retribution from those who instigated the attack against me, you failed to maintain my Empire whilst I was absent, you failed to act against others who did the same, and you failed to complete the Death Star as scheduled—the only direct order I ever gave you."

"Complete…there's a civil war! The Rebellion has taken control of almost the entire Rim systems. I'm the only Moff who still holds his territory out here. Unaided! I should be stepping into Tarkin's boots on the Death Star project, not validating an impossible demand!"

"Interesting that you chose that, of all accusations I leveled, to defend. Perhaps you thought it the only one you possibly could?" Palpatine shook his head slowly. "It will do you no good. You are a product of your times, Moff Kessler, and hopelessly outmoded. The Old Guard whom I allowed to fester, indolent in their power and position, have no place in the new Empire I will build. All that I lost, I will prize so much more for the challenge and the pleasure of its regaining." He turned to the side and walked slowly about the back of his throne as if considering the imposing stretch of the hulking Super Star Destroyer, its complex multilevel structures a massed and sparkling cityscape set within the vast hull of the arrow-edged Destroyer.

"Every battle and victory, every conquest…" He paused in his slow walk to tilt his head towards Shira, who loosed a smile…and Mara's eyes opened wide in realization—were they…?

"All of my experience and erudition," Palpatine continued, "all shall be fired through with a new vitality, a new hunger. I had become complacent, I had become jaded, I had become old…" Thin lips creased to a self-congratulatory grin. "I am none of those things any more. And I will not tolerate them about me. A new leadership is required to execute my renewed vision. The inspired, the hungry...the worthy." As he spoke, Palpatine's eyes returned to Shira, and she straightened, smile widening in anticipation as he continued. "But first I must clear house. Sweep away the old to make way for the new."

"The gullible," Kessler shot back.

Palpatine's head twitched back to Kessler. He stepped from the dais, moving swiftly and smoothly, shoulders tilted forward, utterly confident. Mara and Luke took another step back to leave Kessler alone as he twitched, suppressing the obvious desire to recoil as Palpatine closed with utter contempt in his ocher eyes…

"You misunderstand your place here, Moff Kessler. This is not a discussion, it is not your chance to validate or justify, and your input is not required, in any form. The decision has already been made." He didn't slow as he reached Kessler but instead moved to walk around him, passing first behind Mara and then Luke, voice almost mocking. "I brought you here only to meet your replacement…"

Palpatine paused level with Luke's back…and brought his hands up to rest on his shoulders. Luke's head snapped round from Kessler to Palpatine, his shock as visible as the jolt which fired through Mara's own frame. On the dais Shira straightened with a brief, strangled sound of utter frustration, her hands curling to fists at her sides. Instantly she pulled herself under control, but her eyes had narrowed, lips a hard line.

Mara followed her glare, eyes alighting first on Luke, then flicking to Kessler, whose outrage echoed Shira's.

"Him?! You want to replace me with this juvenile little upstart?"

Palpatine's hands tightened a fraction on Luke's shoulders, offence audible in his voice. "He's already more capable than you. His loyalty, his obedience, is unimpeachable."

"He's a child!"

"I have complete faith in him."

"Dressing a boy in a man's uniform and granting him an unearned commission doesn't make him capable."

Luke bristled, taking a step forward before he managed to regain control and halt himself. Palpatine, who had let his hands slip free as Luke set forward, moved close again to clasp one shoulder in reassurance as he leveled his words at Kessler. "A new order is being ushered in, one of vigor and vitality. Of solidarity. Of commitment. This man would give his life for me."

"Then he's a fool, too," Kessler accused.

Again Luke twitched, jaw grinding. Again Palpatine grinned, hand tightening on Luke's shoulder. "My faith is here."

He said it with such conviction that Luke turned a fraction, searching Palpatine's eyes. Palpatine met his gaze in brief acknowledgment before turning back to Kessler, tone dismissive.

"You are ordered to hand all of your active security codes over immediately, and to inform your senior officers of your dismissal, so that they can facilitate Commander Antilles' takeover of command. Failure to do this will be constituted as treason."

"No-one will accept him!" Kessler practically laughed the words.

" _I_ accept him. That is enough."

And quite suddenly, Mara knew what she was seeing—why Palpatine had chosen to have Kessler brought onboard and to this meeting rather than simply removed, as he'd ordered Luke to do with the Captain of the _Steadfast_. Palpatine's decision to reveal his face, his openly aggressive manner, pushing for a confrontation… This wasn't a test of Kessler's loyalty—it never had been. Luke was right; the man was already marked, useful only as a pawn in a greater game.

Because this was about dealing with discord far closer to home. It was about Luke and Palpatine. About underlining the connection between them—reinforcing it. About engineering a situation specifically to induce Luke to close ranks before an outside threat, in a setting which Palpatine controlled completely.

Dragged into the center of the argument by Palpatine's actions, with insults hurled at him from one side and unconditional support offered from the other, Luke couldn't help but be pulled in, reacting without seeing the strings. But stood on the outside looking in, it was patently clear what was happening as Palpatine remained behind Luke, hand to his shoulder, subtly holding him center-stage in this carefully managed scheme.

"I order you for the last time, Moff Kessler. You will relinquish command with immediate effect and hand all active codes over to Commander Antilles…or he will take them by force."

Kessler straightened, backed into a corner by Palpatine's antagonistic stance—and he would have known that; Palpatine would have known that the hotheaded Kessler would react this way. He'd purposely incited it.

At least Kessler had one last unexpected action to spring. He whirled about and strode for the door, head held high. Palpatine looked immediately to Luke.

Luke part-turned, one hand raising, fingers outstretched—and Kessler loosed a loud, shocked gasp as his legs gave way and he dropped to his knees with painful force, hand reaching to the center of his chest. He keeled over forward, one hand to the floor to support himself, chest heaving, though he clearly couldn't draw air.

Palpatine made the slightest push of his hand on Luke's shoulder, then let it slip free, still and impassive as Luke stalked forward, goaded into action.

He reached the straining man, whose hand had lifted from his chest to claw at his own throat as Luke crouched beside him, voice quietly deadly. "You were given a command by your Emperor, Moff Kessler."

Kessler reached his hand out to grasp at Luke's uniform jacket, and for a moment Mara actually thought he'd fight…but he let out another wrenching gasp and doubled over forward, clenched hand falling free.

"Last chance," Luke whispered. "Last chance, before I come in there—and believe me, you don't want me rifling through your head."

"He won't concede," Palpatine pressed quietly, eyes to the floor. "Not to you."

Luke's head tilted just a fraction…and Mara stared, shocked to silence as the veins on Kessler's forehead began to bulge like rope. Even she sensed the pressure building like static, itching the inside of her scalp as it charged the air, Kessler at its center.

He let out a broken yelp of pain which hitched to silence as his head jerked back…and Mara watched, horrified, as the man's eyes rolled, chest locking, free hand grasping for Luke but falling short, fingers curling closed.

One knee to the ground before the struggling man, Luke's head tilted a fraction further, eyes narrowed as they travelled Kessler's face, unmoved. "All that noise, little man," he whispered. "All that belligerence, from something this fragile. Tell me again which of us shouldn't be here—which of us is out of his depth."

He didn't move—didn't even reach out a hand, as Mara knew that her master always did to focus his abilities—but Kessler let out another pained gasp, head dropping forward as blood surged from his nose in a dark stream to pool on the polished floor.

"Don't," Luke whispered. "Don't try to hide it. I'll turn you inside out if I have to."

She took a breath to speak his name—but beside her Palpatine's head snapped round, his look enough to silence her. Could she have said it anyway in that moment, throat constricted in shock as her eyes were drawn inexorably back to Luke?

Was she finally seeing the Sith her master had trained since childhood? She'd known that he was his Master's prodigy, but everything that she'd seen before paled, those brief, ruthless sparks little more than dim allusions to the coiled power that loosed itself now with neither pity nor compunction.

Was _this_ the spark of fire that burned in every kiss?

Kessler's gasping breaths were loud and labored as Luke rose, his own chest rising and falling rapidly, jaw muscles jumping, though Mara couldn't tell if it was anger or disgust, or whether it was aimed at himself or Kessler.

"You have what you need," Palpatine growled as Luke nodded once. "Finish him."

Luke's head jerked to Palpatine, brow furrowing. He didn't move. No-one did.

The barest twitch shaped Palpatine's lips as he set forward, voice low and hypnotic, eyes on Luke alone. "Finish him. I don't care how. Crush his windpipe, break his neck, open the arteries in his brain. I don't care—just kill him."

As he neared, Palpatine lifted one hand to tighten slim fingers across the back of Luke's neck and turn him gently back to the still-gasping man. Luke stared as Palpatine leaned in close to his shoulder, a voice in his ear—in his thoughts themselves, it seemed, from Luke's expression.

"You remember those words, don't you?" Palpatine whispered. "You're no longer the squeamish child you were then. You're not weak, in resolve or ability. Finish him."

The tableau remained still, Luke's eyes on Kessler, lips a thin line, drawn on by Palpatine's words in a way that Mara couldn't fathom. She found her own lungs had locked, breath stilled as the moment drew taut.

Palpatine leaned closer, his words for Luke alone, quiet persuasion rather than his usual brusque command. "You knew when you started this that you brought him to his execution—you knew when you marched him in here that that's what this was. Is it so very distasteful, to finish what you've begun? You were never a hypocrite."

She watched the battle play out on Luke's face as he stared at the broken Kessler, whose breath came heavy, head low as he retched, blood flowing freely from his nose and mouth.

"Finish him," The words pulsed with persuasion. "Don't make him beg." Palpatine paused, eyes lifting from the man still on his knees. "…Or is that what you want?"

Luke twitched, offense snapping his head round to Palpatine.

"Finish him," Palpatine hissed. "Or I will. I'll make him truly beg…"

There was a threat in the words, though Mara couldn't imagine what. But it was aimed at the man on the ground, as Palpatine's attention turned slowly to him, hand lifting—

It was abrupt; immediate. Luke turned to Kessler, chin twitching once—and with a wrenching crack as loud as any blaster shot, Kessler's head snapped about too far and too fast…

He dropped loose-limbed, the impact making Mara flinch in shock.

Luke was already turning to walk away before Kessler's body hit the ground; was at the heavy double doors before Mara had really registered what he'd done. For a moment he hesitated, head turning briefly to meet her gaze…then he walked from the chamber, footsteps loud in the silence.

Mara's eyes went back to the body…but were dragged up by awareness of Palpatine's attention, that coolly calculating gaze boring into her. She looked down, uneasy…but he said nothing, letting the moment pass.

She was left to turn to the door as it closed behind Luke, wondering again at that searing flare which singed the edge of every kiss.

Quite suddenly, playing with fire seemed a dangerous thing.

.

.

.

.

The Force still buzzed through Luke, crackling at his fingertips, leaving the distinct impression that it would jump like tiny shards of lightening to ground on any surface, had he held out his hand.

He stood naked in his shower, the lights to his quarters and the fresher itself turned off—he didn't need them, not when the Force was coursing through him like this. He didn't want them anyway; didn't want to see…anything.

But when he closed his eyes he saw Mara—sensed her shock. Her misgivings.

He didn't want her to be afraid of him.

He hung his head to let the cool water rush over it…and instantly he was there again, looking down at Kessler. Remembering another man, long ago. Remembering Palpatine's hand about the back of his neck, nails like claws, rasping voice commanding; demanding. _"Crush his windpipe, break his neck, open the arteries in his brain. I don't care how—just kill him."_

How old had he been, then? Eleven? Twelve? He couldn't remember any more. Strange, that of all things, it was his own age that he couldn't remember. He remembered their names—all of them. Took some perverted solace from it. If you killed a man, you should at least have the good grace to remember his name. Sentimentality, guilt…blatant stupidity?

Another name, now; store it with the others— Kern Derrig, Keev Kline, Bria Tharen, Jace Paol, Daino Hix, Burrid, Larens, Mecht, Renna… And this year—this year, there'd been Vale Taggel, in the cantina on Tatooine. Carrice, who'd drawn a blaster on him in the alleyway at the back of the Black Nova on Rishi, thinking Luke had a bounty on his head. Then Captain Beyer and Commander Tatton, who had done nothing at all...and now Saldago Kessler. He wondered briefly if he should count Indo, who had died at Corsin because of Luke…but then if he started counting indirect fatalities he wouldn't have a chance of remembering.

Stood in the water, letting it stream through his hair, he saw the moment again—relived the memory of the very first:

Bail and Breha Organa, knelt with their hands clasped behind their necks, the hard muzzles of stormtrooper rifles resting to the back of their heads. Breha—beautiful Breha, the only mother he'd known, whose hair had always been pinned in thick, glossy plaits, shot through with pearls or ribbons…now it fell across her gaunt face in straggled strands, hacked half-short. And Bail, his adoptive father, battered and bruised, whispering words of reassurance to Luke that both knew he couldn't deliver.

And in that last second as Palpatine had counted down to zero…Breha had turned—just for an instant she'd glanced to Bail, then she'd turned back to Luke—and her eyes, her eyes were so wide in that moment…

Luke jolted as the memory burst apart in a wide scatter of scarlet droplets. He slapped the shower off, backpedalling as he did so, suddenly repulsed by the water in his hair—on his skin.

In an instant he was out of the shower and stood naked and dripping on the fresher floor, eyes wide in the darkness, chest heaving… Over time his tremors gave way to simple shivering, and he pulled his thoughts together and took the robe from the back of the door, chiding his own weakness in giving the memory free rein for even a second as he walked through the small dressing room and into the living space beyond—

Which was now lit. The low lamp at the work desk had been turned partway up, illuminating the room's sole occupant.

Palpatine sat idly flicking through the items on Luke's desk.

For the smallest fraction of a single second Luke faltered—then caught his pace and continued walking with forced nonchalance, grinding his jaw, knowing that this was an effort on Palpatine's part to place him off-guard and make him uncomfortable.

Palpatine didn't turn, instead lifting Luke's lightsaber hilt, abandoned on the desk, to study it with exaggerated interest. "Trying to wash the whole unpleasant experience away?"

"There isn't enough water." Once, he would have held his silence...now he said it anyway.

Palpatine smiled, replacing the lightsaber. "Oh, such wounded morality."

"No. You beat that out of me a long time ago, you know that. Try distaste, at being used."

"Used? You detested the man. You marched him into my presence with barely-controlled revulsion. You wanted to kill him….or did you simply want him dead?" Palpatine tipped his head, the long tail of dark hair at his nape falling over his shoulder as he lifted an eyebrow. "Who was seeking to use who, exactly?"

Luke felt his lip twitch in disgust. "He was arrogant and egotistical. But if you consider those sufficient grounds to kill a Moff then you'd slim your military by half overnight."

"Be my guest. Fresh blood in the leadership, and a Sith who finally shows his true colors, would be a progress indeed."

Luke paused, turning to face that smoothly indifferent countenance. "You'd actually let me, wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps that's what you need; a little bloodlust to feed the fire, again." He glanced to the dark tattoo just visible at Luke's chest. "Wash the grubby mundanity from that Black Heart. Perhaps then I'd finally see the eyes of a true Sith staring back at me."

"Oh, you've built your Sith, believe me."

"Really?" Palpatine asked mildly. "Then are there fire-red eyes beneath that muddy dye?"

"My whole damn life you've judged me and found me wanting."

"Then live up to my expectations."

"I did! I always did—you made sure of that in your own inimitable fashion!"

"I made you strong," Palpatine hissed, eyes aglow as he leaned forward. "Every single day of your life I toiled to mold you into a force to be reckoned with. One that cannot be ignored."

"You made me into a…" He broke off.

"What? A monster?" His Master's lips curled, tone mocking. "Don't be naïve. I ground into you a strength that others only dream of. You're not a child, you know that you will hold the respect of any being for exactly as long as you are willing to turn your abilities on them. Have you forgotten everything that I taught you?"

Palpatine rose to walk forward, closing the gap between them to a single pace as Luke clenched his jaw, refusing to lift his head to meet his Master's eyes as he continued his _lesson_.

"There are two types of people in the galaxy—those who see what you can do and imagine it turned to their advantage, and those who see what you can do, and imagine it turned against them. The latter are the ongoing threats who wait in feigned, compliant silence for you to turn your back or relax your guard, so that they may try to destroy you. They are the constant irritation which needs to be constrained or nullified. The former…ah, they are your true adversaries. It is there that you must make your presence felt. If you do not control them, then they will most certainly exploit and manipulate you. Defeat them—subdue them—and all others will fall into line."

"So which are you, Master?"

Palpatine's lip twitched. "I am the exception to all things. You know that." He reached one hand forward to wrap his fingers about the back of Luke's neck, voice dropping to more persuasive tones. "You and I, we are the same. You will stand where I am, one day."

"Only not…because now you'll live forever. Jump from clone to clone, at will."

Palpatine smiled. "Ah, such resentment, when you've yet to even reach your prime…but perhaps the same could eventually be arranged for you, my friend."

"Live forever? I couldn't imagine anything more horrific." He turned casually to one side, enabling him to move a fraction away.

"So bitter," Palpatine said with amused dismissal, allowing his hand about Luke's neck to slip free. "I'm gone for barely a year, and you rewrite yourself."

"I was already half way here," Luke said calmly.

That thin, divisive smile narrowed Palpatine's lips. "I could have held it off another five years, easily."

"If you'd kept me in the palace," Luke acknowledged flatly. "Under close control."

"Exactly."

Luke studied him for a second, aware that this was a new strategy; that he was being shown the strings by the puppet-master. But if that was the case, then it was only because there were others being set in place. "Only you can't keep me locked up or tied down any more," he said levelly, "because you have no Vader. And you can't reclaim or hold onto your Empire without someone out there—without another Sith as your second in command."

Palpatine shrugged nonchalantly. "I have Brie and Jade."

"Neither of whom are fully trained. Nor will they be in time to push this through, even if you did decide to train them further…which I don't think you will," Luke said confidently. "You're going to have to give me a longer leash."

"... Perhaps."

"Just as you did my—" He caught himself, hesitated…and then said it anyway. "Just as you did my father."

He held his Master's eye, unmoving, as Palpatine stared for several seconds.

"Is that what you call him, now?"

"Does that bother you?"

That searching stare turned into the wide, disingenuous grin Luke recognized so well, for all its new youth. "Not in the least, child." It was the first time in a while he'd called Luke that; the first time he'd felt the need to fall back on it. "You may call him what you wish, for all I care. Call him your executioner, because that's certainly what he would have been so very many times, had I not intervened."

"Only because from the moment you found me, you did everything possible to ensure that."

"Your father was a traitor," Palpatine said it quickly and decisively, knowing its power; that from an early age it was this above all else which had been instilled into Luke as the ultimate sin. "First he betrayed the Jedi who raised and trained him, then he betrayed me, the man who gave him power, position and purpose. And there is nothing as vile and as base as a traitor. So I ask you now, to your face...do you intend to follow in your father's contemptible footsteps, to be as bitter a disappointment… Or will you seek to make amends? Compensate for his failures and claw back the redemption that he so damningly forced you to pursue?"

Luke stared in silence, skewered by the vitriol in his Master's voice…

"You hesitate, child."

"…No, I..."

"Oh, but you do. The moment has played out, the opportunity lost…and still you stand, and I wait."

"I'll never turn my back on you, you know that."

"That was not the question."

"I'll make up for my father's failure." Had he said that? Been backed so easily into calling his father's attempt to protect him a failure?

Palpatine's hand came to Luke's jaw, lifting it gently but firmly, voice softening. "And still such reluctance."

"Not in my loyalty…just… I give it freely, you know that. Why do you have to…" He fell to resigned silence, looking down.

"Why?" Palpatine asked, hand still to Luke's lowered chin. "Because you don't. Because even now, after all that you've just pledged, you are still failing me. Your attention—and therefore your loyalty—is divided."

Luke took a breath, but Palpatine cut him off before he could assemble even the hastiest denial.

"I gave you so much—everything that you are. Just as I did your father. Your father…who turned on me the moment that his loyalties were divided." Palpatine stared, the accusation in his voice echoed in ocher eyes. "Your father betrayed the Jedi for the sake of another…and he betrayed me for the same, sixteen years later." He shook his head slowly. "How gullible, how lacking in judgment would I be, to allow the same flaw to fester in his son?"

Luke's breath left him in a silent gasp which turned every strength into trepidation. Because despite his denial, he knew where this was leading. "I don't—"

"In the past, I have taken from you by force those whom I deemed too great a draw on your attention. And when I have, it has been with a ruthlessness which left you…bereft."

His heart skipped; it missed a beat and then drummed hard against his chest. Without thinking he took a step back as scarlet-spattered images of Bail and Brea Organa screamed briefly in his mind, their eyes wide, his name choked off mid-shout.

Palpatine's voice had quietened again, though there was not an iota of compromise. "Luke…these are old lessons, and I understand why they have lapsed in my absence. But your life—your foundations and motivations—are now reinstated, and you must put all else aside. Everything. There is no room for anything but true and total loyalty. You once spent every day of your life in pursuit of that most noble goal, and you must dedicate yourself to it again. I have only ever asked this one thing of you, and in return I have given you shelter from the storm, I have given you meaning, I have given you life itself. I ask for so little…"

Luke glanced down as Palpatine stepped in close.

"Set her aside, child. Yours must be a path of solitude. Of dedication to duty. I ask you this to make you strong, to make you whole again."

"No, you do it to regain control."

"I do it to save her. Did your father tell you what happened to your mother—that he killed her in a fit of rage. A single lapse of temper."

"I don't believe you."

Palpatine glared…then his lip twitched infinitesimally as his eyes moved from affront to cool confidence. "She died as you were born, I was told. Distraught and alone, with a broken heart."

Shira's shrewdly mocking words to Luke rang again through his besieged thoughts; _"She'll break your little black heart. She will, because you'll break hers. You can't help it, it's who you are. It's what he made you."_

Palpatine's eyes lifted, voice softening. "It nearly destroyed your father, this ignominy. It robbed him of so much. Would you have the object of your own pitiful obsession die at your hand in some brief, blind fit of rage, as your father killed your mother? Would you have her die at mine, tonight, to save you from suffering the same bleak aftermath that beset your father?"

"The fire in the forest, you said," Luke grasped at the memory. Palpatine frowned, confused. But the words he had spoken months ago as a validation that Luke remained loyal to him alone, had lodged in Luke's head as effectively as all his Master's claims. "You said that Sith were like flames in a forest; eventually they burned everything around them, whether they meant to or not."

His Master nodded. "As your father did your mother."

"But with you I was rendered safe, you said, because we were the same. Only fire can withstand fire."

Realizing his logic, Palpatine shook his head. "She is not like you. She is as a spark to the sun, and you will surely destr—"

"You said that the Force brought you and I together again because it recognized that—because it was fated. Why not with her, too? Why not that elemental draw?"

He knew his error as the words had left his mouth. Palpatine stared, his agitation so heated that it curled back the edges of that cool control to reveal the raw, resentful jealousy simmering beneath all his validations. "Is that what you feel?"

Luke looked quickly down. "No. I just…"

He'd been on the verge of admitting the commitment he and Mara had already made, but had shied away in the last heartbeat. The wisdom of that was made crystal clear by Palpatine's clipped words, uttered between curled lips with irrevocable finality.

"Cut her free. Now. Do it decisively. Do it with resolve and conviction. Shatter that link. Burn the bridge, utterly and completely. You have known for a long time that ruthless detachment can be a hidden kindness, and this is no different. Do it now, of your own will…or I will do it for you."

.

.

.

.

.


	15. Chapter 15

.

.

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

.

.

.

By the time Mara arrived in the darkened observation chamber that he'd left a comm message calling her to, Luke had smoked himself calm, dizzy and distant. Now he simply sat, watching the far-flung stars of…whichever the hell system they were in now. He couldn't remember. Couldn't bring himself to care.

A bright slice of light from the corridor outside cut through the gloom of the big room, reflecting in harsh tones across the wide run of floor to ceiling viewports which stretched the walls of this empty chamber, designed with no purpose other than to gaze at the universe. It was a room that didn't exist on any other military destroyer, Luke knew, unique to the _Executor_. A folly, in a ship of war.

Her slim silhouette showed in brief, appealing lines before the door behind her slid closed, locking out the light.

"Luke?"

He heard the joy in her voice and withdrew from it, remaining in the shadows. "Here."

She slowed as she came nearer, realizing. "Spice?"

"You put so much distaste into a single word. That's quite an art." He had to smile. "Reminds me of someone else I once knew. He's dead, now."

She stepped closer to him, refusing as ever to be intimidated or derailed. "Where did you get it?"

He looked away to distant darkness and drew deeply on the spice stick. "It's not hard to find. Even on the _Steadfast_ , when you first picked me up. I told you then that it's always around, if you're willing to pay the price." He lifted his head a fraction, hardening his heart. "What, you didn't realize?"

"You weren't taking spice then." There was a shade of anger in her voice; of disappointment. Of worry, though he chose to ignore that; it would only make this harder.

"Did you ever see me with any withdrawal symptoms? I assume you knew how much I had in my system after you picked me up on Rishi—the buildup from habitual use. Do you seriously think I could go through all the stages of withdrawal without once even snapping at you?"

She leaned back. "You snapped. More than once. "

"Oh, you haven't seen me snap," Luke said, voice dangerously low. "Not really. Now you're thinking, What about Kessler, tonight."

Her chin lifted. "Are you reading my thoughts?"

He ignored her entirely, shaking his head a fraction. "Like I said, you haven't seen me snap—not really. Maybe you should, just once. Might open your eyes."

"To what?"

One side of his mouth twitched up as he fell into the role. It wasn't even that hard, to let the darkness show. It was always right there, just waiting. Was it this that he sensed, whenever they kissed—the veneer of civility curling back to reveal his true core? Like his father.

" _Did your father tell you what happened to your mother—that he killed her in a fit of rage. A single lapse of temper."_

"This isn't me, you see. This obliging front. This…sociable team player." Another brief, self-effacing smile tugged his lip. "Sociopath, maybe, but not sociable. And I have to tell you, it's getting old. It's getting hard to maintain, to tell the truth."

She hesitated—and he braced. Because she always knew just how to get beneath his armor.…

"He changes you, you know. Palpatine."

That was a body-blow. Fortunately he'd learned long ago to roll with the punches. He even held her eye a second.

"Of course I know." He let his head tip past her to the dark void, again. "I just don't particularly care."

"… _he killed her in a fit of rage."_

She stared, waiting for more, and all he wanted to do was turn around and leave. All he wanted to do was pull her to him and never let her go.

She had to walk away. It had to be her, because now, faced with the moment, he couldn't do it himself. He blinked quickly as distant stars blurred in his vision, willing himself to believe his own claim of indifference. "Maybe with his return I'm…re-finding myself. I've no need for all this petty banality. It bores me." He took a long pull from the spice stick and made himself meet her gaze again. "…All of it."

Realization took the air from her body in a slow, silent breath…but to her credit, she drew herself up as her voice and eyes hardened. "All this dancing around the point. Why don't you just come out and say it."

Luke's lips hardened to a brief, practiced smile. "I thought I just had. Was it unclear?"

"No, it was very clear. And very sudden." There was a question in the last.

He shrugged in silence. He had nothing left, and pushing her away when she wouldn't be forced into an argument—when he didn't want her to go—was becoming harder by the second. "You know me," he murmured. "Impulsive."

"Impulsive? No. You seem it at first, but you generally have a reason for the things you do. Even the stupid ones. I can't see one for this."

He was so tempted to tell her; to say exactly where this had all come from, since she remained forever willfully blind. But he'd experienced first-hand what it was, to loose faith. To have that which you'd dedicated your life to—built the foundations of your world and your self upon—revealed in all its ugly truth. And what good would it do anyway, to rob her of her faith in Palpatine? In the end, this moment still had to play out. He envied her, in a way. Wished fervently that he still believed as completely as she did. Wished someone had been able to spare him the pitiless truth…because it changed nothing. It simply rendered the blackness that made up so much of the galaxy that much colder. Stubbing the remnants of the spice stick into the polished floor he rose and walked wordlessly past her to the door.

"You know, you said you'd do this." She said quietly as he passed "I said it."

Her hand rose to the neckline of the uniform she wore, where she pulled out a delicate cord which had lay hidden…and it was Luke's turn to feel the air leave him as he stared at the crushed form of the folded foil ring that he'd slipped onto her finger.

He remembered distinctly pausing partway, his heart in his mouth.  
" _Yes?"  
_ " _…Yes."_

Strange…how one word changed so much. And yet he'd made light of it at the time, not knowing how to voice that.  
 _"I now pronounce us indelibly tied."  
"By a piece of foil I could unfold and rip up?"  
"No. By this."_

A kiss…whose heat was always tinged with a dark twist of destruction, like paper scorched at its edge.

" _He killed her in a fit of rage."_

He'd known…even then, Luke had known how dangerous it was. How doomed. She didn't understand—not like he did. And yet he'd still done it. Did he care for her at all, that he'd put her through this? Or was it all pure selfishness?

" _Don't you dare make my decisions for me!"_ Her words, when he'd tried to leave before. And he understood—he did. So many decisions had been made for him, his entire life. for both of them.

" _Don't you dare make my decisions for me!"_

But who else could? If he could see what she couldn't—wouldn't.

He took a shaky breath as he looked down, because if he had to face that fragility and strength, he wouldn't be able to do this. "Ask me where I got the spice, Mara."

She remained silent and he hesitated, feeling his soul teeter on the very brink… "I just told you I was still using spice onboard the _Steadfast_ , even at the very beginning. Bearing in mind that only two people had access to my quarters back then—I didn't leave, I didn't ever go walkabout without your knowledge, and no-one else entered—ask me where I got the spice I was using. All that time…"

He watched the truth dawn as he spoke, his voice quiet and neutral. "Like I said, it's not hard to find, if you're willing to pay the price." He paused; if he hadn't, his voice would have broken. But it was long enough that he managed to pull it all back in and even bring his head up to meet her eyes, no trace of the guilt he felt sounding in his words. "I was."

He glanced to the ring he'd once put on her finger.

"You should rip that up," he murmured, and left.

.

.

.

.

.

The door to the Captain's office which Luke habitually used onboard the _Steadfast_ , chimed before it opened.

Commander Elliss, officially his second in command but in fact the acting day to day Captain onboard because Luke was constantly recalled over to the _Executor_ , stepped smartly in.

"Sir..Gener—Sir,"

Luke didn't look up, rubbing at his temples. "Sir is fine."

It made everyone uneasy, his new rank. It had been granted by Palpatine the day following Kessler's death, and five days later, it sat no easier. Perhaps not least of all because Luke himself was uneasy with it. A small velvet box had arrived late in the evening containing matching insignia of three narrow black collar bars, for the Ubiqtorate uniform he wore. No standard chest insignia—Palpatine knew exactly how far he could push.

To date they remained in his quarters, though his commission had been disseminated through fleet comms at the same time that the insignia had arrived. Hardly a subtle message; no choice to refuse this one, as he had Kessler's title of Grand Moff.

Palpatine had accepted that refusal without argument—it was no longer important; everything that his Master had sought to gain from the strategy, he had. Whether Luke took on Kessler's title or commission was immaterial. More than that, it was counterproductive; Palpatine wanted his Sith near to hand, and not distracted by something as mundane as the day to day business of governing the Rim territories. That had fallen to Moff Kaigi, the governor of the adjacent territory, who had apparently been escorted into the chamber after Luke had left and given a chance to acknowledge the re-cloaked and hooded Palpatine as Emperor, and comply with all future commands and demands. With Moff Kessler still dead on the floor Kaigi had, not surprisingly, agreed.

Still, Palpatine couldn't have his new second in command who'd done the deed—his direct envoy among the military masses—wandering around with a lowly Commander's rank. And so the collar bars had arrived—along with a commission to Lieutenant General URL. The Unrestricted Line Officer commission that Indo had always so single-mindedly sought for his charge; had trained Luke towards his whole life.

It remained, in terms of rank, several levels below the position that his father had held—but that all-important addition of URL entitled him to step in and take over command of anything from an individual task force or strike group, up through any size of ship or Destroyer squadron, any army corps, division or installation at will, by direct mandate from the Emperor. He was effectively a Moff without the restriction of a specific territory. Both public statement and private reminder, if one were needed, of his emerging position as Palpatine's second in command.

Still it sat uneasily with Luke, especially among those onboard the _Steadfast_. His command here was uncomfortable enough, having removed not only her previous Captain and Commander on Palpatine's order, but also their Sector Moff, Kessler. All executed in the service of the man who had…what? Murdered Luke's own father? Or the man who had been forced to defend himself _from_ Vader, because of Luke's failure in stopping his father in the first place?

Either way, Luke could feel himself slipping by increments back into that life. Falling into both his father's old position, and that which Palpatine had been preparing him for, as bodyguard. His bolt hole of the ISD _Steadfast_ had already been singled out by Palpatine as the Star Destroyer which would now routinely travel as the _Executor's_ escort. As if it needed one.

He could have ordered Luke to remain permanently onboard the _Executor_ itself, where he already had assigned quarters, but that would have put Luke in close contact with Mara. And having prized them apart so recently, Luke knew that Palpatine would have no intention of facilitating any kind of reconnection. So he'd given Luke a longer leash in the last two weeks, allowing him to spend the bulk of his time onboard the _Steadfast_.

Part of him had actually considered, briefly, taking Kessler's offered commission and territories, simply because it would leave him stranded in the Rim systems overseeing them whilst the _Executor_ moved on. But Palpatine was presently using Kessler's expansive Rim territories as a base whilst he oversaw the completion of the Death Star and slowly regained his hold of everything between the Southern Rim and the Colonies, where his new strongholds of Fondor and Kuat resided. And anyway, whether he held Kessler's commission or not, it wouldn't buy him distance from his Master; it would have been at best a paper title, requiring the appointment of another Moff on Luke's part to oversee his newly-awarded territories, whilst he travelled with Palpatine. Another level of beaurocracy and complications, for a title and territories which Luke had absolutely zero interest in holding in the first place.

All of which left him here. He lifted his head to glance briefly out at the colossal mass of the _Executor_ which held above and slightly fore of them, its position blocking out the local system's sun and leaving the _Steadfast_ in its wide shadow.

And here, in the Emperor's shadow, was where he'd always been, he supposed.

Commander Elliss moved uneasily as he fumbled a quick "Of course, Sir," his discomfort blasting out of him in waves. "We've had a priority comm from the _Executor_ ; the Emperor commands you to his presence."

"Fine. Have a shuttle made ready, I'll be at the bay in five."

.

He boarded the shuttle minutes later. Another strategy meeting, more than likely. He tried hard to stay off the _Executor_ as much as possible, to avoid Mara, but it wasn't easy with Palpatine recalling him on the slightest whim.

Some small part of him had wondered whether Mara might confront Shira about what he'd said. But a confrontation over something that was already broken beyond repair would have shown only weakness, and she was smarter and stronger and prouder than that. And more loyal, to Palpatine; she'd never cause that kind of division.

She hadn't tried to contact him. Which was just as well, because he head no idea what he would do, if she did.

Out of curiosity, he had queried the eventual command of the _Executor's_ sister-ship at the last meeting, still under construction at Kuat shipyards, wondering if its command might go to Mara as an effective method of maintaining the distance between she and Luke.

His Master had grinned, voicing pleased platitudes that Luke would seek the commission…without ever specifically answering. Luke hadn't bothered to correct the mis-assumption; he had no interest in commanding it, he simply wanted to know who would. But the vagueness of Palpatine's answers meant that it had likely gone to Shira; she'd clearly been livid at Palpatine's willingness to grant Kessler's titles and territories to Luke. He'd had to placate her with something.

So she had control of the Ubiqtorate, and a Super Star Destroyer, on its eventual completion. Expensive gifts. All things considered, he'd gotten off pretty lightly in his own short-lived fling with her, by comparison.

He wondered briefly what would have happened, had he not dissolved that; smiled slightly as he walked the grey corridors of the _Executor_ , at the knowledge of how quickly she would have dropped him the moment that Palpatine had expressed an interest.

Even in that, then, he'd managed to take the wrong tack; had he simply waited, she would have dissolved the affair herself anyway, thus saving him the trouble and the resultant animosity.

But he hadn't. So now, in Palpatine's elite inner circle of three, he had to ignore two sets of glaring green eyes, whilst his Master had somehow managed to emerge spotless. Luke's lip twitched again at that; he always did. It wasn't by coincidence.

.

.

.

He came to a slow stop outside of the grand doors in his Master's apartments onboard the _Executor_ , mentally bracing himself. The expected group of Moffs and strategists were absent when he entered though, as was Shira. Only Mara stood to loose attention at the rear of the office, her eyes on the vast cityscape of the _Executor's_ chiseled upper hull.

She didn't turn when he entered. Then again, he didn't expect her to.

Without even thinking, he slid a few more defensive shields in place as he stepped forwards, making a brief bow to his Master, who glanced to him through the fractal light of a holo-map.

"You summoned me?"

"Ah." The air of impatient frustration that Palpatine managed to inject into a single word, even without the Force, was impressive—but then he had always been the master of conveying meaning without having to resort to anything as mundane as words. In this case, patent frustration at the amount of time it had taken Luke to arrive after the summons had been sent, leaving him to wonder how much longer Palpatine would tolerate his returning to the _Steadfast,_ before he was ordered to remain permanently onboard the _Executor_.

But to do that, Palpatine needed to reassign Mara, and he knew it. So he settled for a clipped edge to his voice, for now.

"I have instructed Admiral Brie to activate infiltration units along the borders, as we discussed," Palpatine's eyes returned to the holo-screen which flickered as it changed to a combination of projected timetables and star maps.

Luke remained silent; in fact he'd objected to several parts of his Master's plan—and been overruled. But the formation of multiple infiltration units tasked with reducing the Rebel's stockpiles of resources, as well as destroying any facilities capable of producing more, had seemed logical. The fact that he'd been brought here to be told that the plan was in motion, less so. Which begged the question…why _was_ he here?

Palpatine keyed a series of commands into the holo-display, and it altered again, opening a series of Intel files and their associated links. "I also noticed, in passing, a portion of an old report stored a few days before Corsin." He rose, trailing his fingers along the edge of his desk as he walked about it. "It concerned a report I had requested at the time, regarding Kenobi's padawan."

Luke felt his head make the barest jerk, though he remained silent. Palpatine let the silence hang as he made his way casually about the desk, eyes trailing to the darkness beyond the Destroyer's angled viewports before he spoke again.

"You never finished the report."

"I…don't remember. It may have been finished but not uploaded from the _Relentless'_ mainframe onto the grid before…before your assassination."

"Of course." Palpatine nodded casually as Luke felt his chest tighten, though he stood with loose limbs, the picture of outward calm.

Something burned beneath his ribcage, shortening each breath, weighing heavy at the thought that Palpatine was turning his attention to Leia. He blinked, taken off-guard by the rush of feelings, the need to act to his Master's advantage tempered by the innate desire to hold back. To protect.

He could—should—volunteer so much information right now which would be of immense value. His knowledge of Leia's parentage, his own connection to her, and how it could be used to his Master's benefit… So why did he remain silent?

Palpatine brought his hand to his lips in casual consideration, voice coolly distant, as if simply tying up loose ends which barely mattered. "Reading it again, I was curious as to why you came to speak to her, in the first place? The report you submitted made no reference to that."

Luke frowned, aware that the waters were being tested, and playing for time. "If the report was incomplete, as you said, I would have been in the process of filling in the details before submitting it."

"Of course. And they are?"

"… She arrived on Coruscant to make contact with the Sinto spy who you ordered me to bring in a year and a half ago. When I killed him I took the meeting place from his thoughts as he died, and used it to try to track down his contact. I told you this at the time—the details would likely have been in an earlier report."

"Ah," Palpatine nodded. "Quite a coincidence, that it was her. Did you know that the Sinto spy's contact was a Jedi?"

 _How much does he know?_ "No, Master. I didn't know until later."

"At the skyhook, on Coruscant." Palpatine nodded as he moved closer, clearly well aware of the facts that he was claiming ignorance to. Luke fought the growing urge to backstep at the same rate, to maintain the distance between them as Palpatine continued in level tones after a moment's considered thought. "When Vader came looking for you at the skyhook, did he see the girl at all?"

Luke hesitated, aware that he was getting into ever more murky territory, forced to mentally cross-reference the lies he'd told well over a year earlier to conceal Kenobi's revelations. Everything—his whole life—had spiraled in freefall from that moment. Was still doing so, right now, because of it. "I don't believe Lord Vader saw her, no. He only wanted to get to Kenobi. Who Kenobi had come with was irrelevant."

"He made no effort to speak with her?"

"No, Master. He didn't pursue her at all." A black hole was opening up inside Luke as this conversation continued with such civilized calm, on both parts. He knew! Palpatine _knew_ who Leia was—knew her connection to Vader, and therefore to Luke. How?

Her name—of course, her name! The name that Luke had supplied in the report dossier he'd compiled long before he'd known his father's real identity, and then dutifully uploaded onto the mainframe. Palpatine would have already known Vader's real name from before the Clone Wars, but Leia's very existence had been kept hidden by Kenobi and the Rebels. And Luke—he had learned her name from Leia herself without knowing that she was his sister or Vader's daughter. Kenobi had told Luke that Vader was his father, but had purposely omitted Vader's real name to hide Leia's connection. And so, unknowing, Luke had done this—had filed the report which had linked his sister to his father and therefore himself!

He wanted to drop back his head and shout out in frustration…but he did nothing, face a mask, everything held back beneath smooth, composed shields as his mind tumbled in freefall.

Should he warn her? He had no idea what to do—how to act in any situation that went against all his Master had taught him to uphold. Loyalty was everything—everything! But brief though their meetings had been, even at the time, Luke's protection of Leia had always somehow transcended that.

"I see…" Palpatine's simple words were loaded with unspoken knowledge as he stepped close, then remained still for long seconds, ochre eyes half-closed in consideration…

Then he looked quickly to Luke, and a smile tugged at one edge of his lip. "I wonder your opinion on this matter? It may yet be your task to remove this threat, if others fail to resolve the problem."

Luke's breath was still, thoughts racing; Palpatine believed him unaware. A flare of resentment fired, that his Master would send him to kill his own sister. But then why should he be surprised? He licked dry lips, trying to feel his way.

"She's surely useful, Master," he hedged. "Better to keep her alive."

"For what reason?"

Again Luke hesitated. There was none he could really give without betraying himself. "She's a powerful Force user."

"More powerful that you?" Palpatine rested one hand to Luke's shoulder, head tilted in empty indulgence. "You're too modest, my friend. No, I have my advocate, and the Rule of Two dictates its limits for good reason. To hold another is to invite disaster, and she…ah, this wily little creature is already my murderer."

"To engage the Rebels now is—"

Palpatine raised his hand, palm out, in a forbearing command for silence. "I know. This may have to wait until I have greater forces under my control. But my day of reckoning is coming. You were right when you pointed out to Vader that she was more of a threat than Kenobi."

Luke fought to maintain a blank façade as the thought of Palpatine concentrating his attentions on Leia fired another flare of…what? He had no name for this run of emotions, though he knew that now wasn't the time to give them rein, whatever their origin. "Stabilizing your rule and your Empire should be priorities now."

"Now, they are. But I will return my attention to her at the first opportunity. I cannot allow such a threat to fester unchecked. In the meantime, I will make sure that I have everything in place to move against the last of the Jedi, when the opportunity arises."

Luke's chin rose a fraction, but he didn't speak; didn't even try to deny Palpatine that right, knowing it would only incite him to further action. To have a Jedi at large was bad enough for his Master; to have her stand amongst the Rebels was worse still. To have one running free whom Palpatine's own Sith advocate sought in any way to defend or protect would be patently intolerable.

But he needed to remain in that information loop…or rather, he _wanted_ to.

"I can monitor and possibly—"

"No. Your attention is better focused elsewhere. We will begin the campaign here in the Moddell subsystem at the edge of Moff Kessler's old territories within two weeks, and I need you with me."

"Here?" Luke frowned, surprised. "Why bring their forces here? Especially with the Death Star not yet moved to Sekati's shipyards."

"Have you no faith in your Master, child?" Palpatine chided.

Luke glanced away, contrite, which seemed to satisfy, as Palpatine's voice held a fraction of genuine indulgence when he continued. "Endor is well behind Imperial lines, and so protected. Your reports place it at less than a month from independent flight, three from near-completion. Are they correct?"

"Yes—as long as supply routes from Fondor and Kuat remain open." He should have stopped then; should have bitten his tongue and held his silence… "But why bring the Rebels to our borders at all, yet? I thought you'd agreed that to consolidate your power base was—" Luke paused as the hand on his shoulder tightened to silence him.

"The campaign will begin with hit and fade attacks designed to draw their attention and gauge their fleet and reaction times, that is all."

"And force us to reveal the same, if you operate from the edge of our own borders."

"We will reveal nothing. The _Executor_ and the fleet will no longer be present in the Moddell subsystem when the attacks begin, and the Death Star will be moved to Fondor soon afterwards, for final trials. Only Moff Kessler's ships will move against them. The true battle will begin when my Death Star is operational. And it will not begin here."

"Where will the fleet go?"

"We will head Corewards within the Mid Rim, to make contact with and cement new allies, before travelling to Fondor when my Death Star is active. We were contacted today by Moffs Kirimar and Moff Thaler. Along with Moff Ferrin, Moff Ecke and Moff Kato we now control the assets of fifteen territories. I built an Empire with far less. I will do so again. The time for talking is over."

"But to bring the Rebels to our border within the month means that the Death Star will still be at Endor. We could test their defenses at any loca—"

The hand on his shoulder tightened further, exerting pressure. Palpatine tilted his head, making the long tail of his black hair fall forward over his shoulder, voice a grating whisper. "Your Emperor—your _Master_ —has spoken."

For a second Luke held his eye…then he glanced down, letting out his frustration in a long sigh. "With your permission, I'll return to—" he didn't even get to finish the request.

"No. You will remain onboard the _Executor_ tonight, my friend."

Luke glanced briefly to Mara, who looked slowly away.

Flexing his jaw, he tried again. "If a campaign is imminent, I need to—"

Intense ocher eyes fixed on him, speaking volumes though not a word passed those bloodless lips as Luke sighed, closing his mouth on any further attempts; the Emperor had spoken.

.

.

He was so caught up in his thoughts as he left that he didn't notice Shira in the ante-room until he was level with her and had lifted his head, making inadvertent eye-contact. She loosed her trademark self-satisfied smirk, and he cursed inwardly, knowing there was no way to avoid her now, as she fell into step beside him.

"Well, well, if it isn't Lieutenant General Antilles, our new Unrestricted Officer of the Line."

"For what it's worth." He caught himself; no weakness here, not in front of Shira. "Afraid that salute you were hoping for is looking pretty unlikely now, Rear Admiral."

Her rank, awarded when she'd taken over control of the Ubiqtorate, had earned her a coveted two-star military rank—but Luke's, as Lieutenant General, placed him as three-star. And so Palpatine still played his games, setting his senior officers against one another, even here. So much for the brave new Empire he was creating.

Unaware of the course of his thoughts, Shira let her lips curve to a suggestive smile. "Oh, you know it was never really the field of command that I wanted to dominate you in. Perhaps I should come round tonight and explain the…details."

Luke tilted his head. "Trying to get me killed this way, now?"

"Ah, but what a way to go."

"I mean that I know about you and Palpatine."

She tilted her head in a mock-pout. "What's wrong, is the competition a little too stiff for you?"

"You're mistaking lack of interest for lack of nerve."

Ignoring his dismissal with a confident toss of her blunt red bob, she glanced back to the receding doors of Palpatine's office as they walked. "So what did he want?"

Luke stopped, finally turning to her, mouth tightly closed.

"Oh come on," she cajoled. "He'll tell me later anyway—he will. Don't you want me to know your side of it?"

"Right, 'cos that line would work on me."

"Was it about the campaign? Nineteen separate infiltration squads were shipped out today, with destinations all along the Moddell border."

He turned and started walking again, leaving the long, dimly-lit ante-room for the bright corridor beyond. "I didn't ask."

"But you know what his greater plan is, don't you?"

"Why would I? He works to his own agenda. I told him not to try to fight on two…."

Luke slowed, and Shira paused with him, studying him intently. "You know something, don't you?"

It was the location of the infiltration squads: along their own borders in the Moddell sector. He'd asked the question himself; why bring the fight here? Unless it wasn't that at all.

Palpatine wasn't bringing the fight _here_ ; he was taking it _away_ from elsewhere, centering the enemy's attention and resources exactly where he wanted them to be—which any tactician would tell you should be as far as possible from the real goal. The fact that both the fleet and the Death Star were moving away from Moddell—more importantly, moving spinward—was more revealing than a few infiltration teams or border incursions. He should have seen that!

Palpatine's priorities were exactly what they always had been, the mind and will inside that cloned body as predictable as ever; himself first, _then_ his Empire.

This was Palpatine covering his own back, retrieving his insurance before he'd move forward…

Shira took the arm of his uniform jacket, bringing his eyes to her.

"You know why he's starting the campaign on our own borders. You know where the main fleet will be and why, don't you—don't you? Tell me!"

He smiled tightly. "Work it out, and maybe you'll be worth those bars on your collar, Shira. Prove you aren't just a paper title."

Her eyes narrowed a little, game as ever. "If I'm right…will you tell me?"

"If you're wrong, I'll laugh in your face. Is that the same thing?"

She wrinkled her nose, still flirting, even now.

"As I recall, I had a trick or two that used to wipe that grin off and make you purr like a pitten. Care to see if they still work?"

Luke stared, amazed that she'd let him get away with that… and it came in a flash of realization. Her constant flirtations, ignoring outrageous provocation and still coming back for more, pushing for a connection, even now. All this attentiveness, from someone who was so clearly the center of her own galaxy.

He hesitated for just a second, aware that he could use it to his advantage… But it was one of those moments where the desire to see just how spectacularly it could all blow up in his face was too great. "He won't teach you."

She straightened a little, expression falling to a more guarded edge for the first time, and Luke smiled, nodding.

"He won't teach you any more about the Force, so you're having to fall back on me, aren't you. This must be killing you, Shira. You've got all that power and pole position…but he won't give you what you really want."

That cocksure lilt to her voice had slipped just a little, despite her claim. "He'd give me anything I want."

"Really? Well then you don't need me." He turned.

"Wait!" She bit at her lower lip, uncertain how to maneuver this to her own gain now that he'd seen the strings and called her on it.

Luke shook his head, voice low. "Do you know what he'd do to you if he found out you were trying to go behind his back? Do you know what he'd do to _me_?"

She lifted her chin. "Do you know what he'd do if he found out the truth about you and Mara?"

He'd twisted about and snatched out at her before he even knew what he was doing, fingers gripping too tightly at the top of her arm. "Don't _ever_ try to blackmail me."

Her cheek twitched as she let out a brief gasp, and he released her, looking quickly up and down the corridor. Loosing his shoulders, he made himself breathe again. "There's nothing between me and Mara, not any more."

"No? So if I—"

"I swear, Shira, I will tear your face off and—"

"Shhh." That satisfied smile had reinstated, utterly sure of herself.

Luke's voice dropped a notch in warning. "Don't start, Shira. Not with me—not with this. I'm not someone you want to try to back into a corner."

"Start? I'm not trying to start anything. I'm just looking to carry on from where we left off." Her head tipped, smile hardening. "And don't try the strong-arm tactics on me again, Antilles. I'm untouchable, now."

He leaned in, face softening just a fraction. "Untouchable?" his eyes travelled her face as he leaned in, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips. "You know you were right earlier, I do seem to remember that game we had along those lines, when we were together. Put a smile _on_ your face, as I recall…no touching."

He let the brief flirtation fall away; it wasn't hard.

She jolted just slightly; not at what he'd done—she would have barely felt it—but at the outcome. Her hand rose quickly to her nose…and when she brought it away, a scarlet smear covered her finger—just a few drops, no more. But her eyes came up to him, wide with shock.

"Works just the same, anywhere in the body," he said flatly, then turned to walk away.

.

.

.

.

.

.

It had been almost three weeks since Palpatine had issued the order which had released the incursion teams along the edge of Moff Kessler's old territories, and after nine successful missions and only two teams lost, the results were, in Palpatine's words, _satisfactory_.

Less so, for Luke.

As he'd expected, the _Executor_ and her fleet had travelled back to Kuat, on the very edge of the Core systems, to ensure that they weren't seen throughout the operation. He knew exactly where they were waiting to go, and why, but despite his best efforts at figuring out a way to use that to get himself away from of the _Executor_ —even as far as the accompanying _Steadfast_ —it had proved of little value. Palpatine wanted him close…and that meant that every attempt Luke made to extricate himself was met with a kind of amused but flat refusal.

He'd tried, at least, to put the time to good use. As much as Palpatine had sought to coax the events from Luke regarding what had happened at Corsin when he had sent Luke after Vader, Luke himself had tried to do the same to find out what had happened between Vader and his Master when Luke was gone, bundled unconscious onto a shuttle whilst his father returned to face Palpatine.

More than anything, he wanted to know his father's motivations. Wanted to have the tiny pinprick of hope which he would never admit that he held, vindicated—that his father had done it out of the desire to protect the son he hadn't, until that moment, known existed.

That there was some connection, no matter how brief.

But of course, Palpatine would never allow him that. Instead, he was met with knowing, circuitous evasions which resulted always in a stalemate of Luke not wanting to push sufficiently to reveal his interest, and his Master far too sly to tell even a half-truth, when a lie would serve far better. The desire, in those dark, frustrating moments, to simply call on the Force and slide, undetected, between the mental barriers that his Master believed were so perfect, was almost overwhelming…

But the rules which had been ingrained in him since childhood still held: _Not to this mind. Not ever._ Loyalty, obedience, commitment, devotion…

To the man who had killed his father. The man whom his father had given his life, to try to free Luke from.

Or had it been that at all? Was he clinging, even now, to the desperate hopes of a cornered child that somehow, this shining ideal—a father he'd never even known—would come and tell him that it was okay, it was alright. He'd done what he'd had to, to survive. The slate—a soul—wiped clean, by…

He couldn't even think it, let alone comprehend it. Feel it. And if he couldn't, then how could his father?

And all of that his Master fed, keeping him close. All that doubt, all those private misgivings…every one, his Master knew. Had placed himself, for his personal use, in this and every other moment necessary. Luke knew that. He _knew_ that.

 _Loyalty, obedience, commitment, devotion…_

He sighed, gazing out across space to Kuat's distant star, the spark of its penumbra flashing through the man-made ring of starship construction facilities that girdled Kuat. He was sat alone in the wide expanse of the _Executor's_ observation chamber, whose long run of almost seamless transparisteel gave the impression of sitting in space itself, when you doused the lights and locked the door to ensure silence. The dark stillness of the vast, empty space suited his mood. Still stuck onboard the _Executor_ and trying hard to sidestep both Mara and Shira, he had taken to avoiding his own quarters entirely, even on the rare occasions that he was off-duty and away from his Master.

He was loose and lax, having already smoked two spice sticks, whose dark red smoke hung in a rolling pall at ceiling level, not yet dissipated by the air exchange.

It would have been the spice which had stopped him noticing her, he supposed. Normally he would have sensed her and either left himself, or used the Force to gently shunt her awareness aside, so that she passed without realizing. But his mind was hazy and muggy, intentionally cast adrift by the spice, so when he heard the locked door emit a brief, low chime to indicate to someone beyond that it was locked, he assumed that whoever it was would simply take the hint and leave.

Instead they keyed an override, so that Luke's solitude was broken by the invasive flare of the corridor lights as the door slid open to let the unwanted intruder enter. Sat off to the rear and the side of the darkened room and dressed in black, he was invisible enough to give him several long seconds' advantage over the interloper, who was still blinded by the efficient lighting of the corridor beyond.

He paused—froze, in fact, garbled thoughts groping to come up with any kind of intelligible response. Caught offguard, gut feelings surfaced too quickly to be doused by his usual deliberate distance, and his heart thumped against his ribs then skipped at the sight of her.

Slim and lithe, her long red hair pulled into a thick plait at the nape of her neck, Mara scowled into the darkness. She must be off-duty, because she wore a shipboard flightsuit which skimmed her curves to subtle effect, unfastened to the waist to allow a sliver of her bright white athletic vest to practically glow to Luke's dark-accustomed vision. She looked amazing. She looked beautiful. She looked strong and delicate, and everything that he wanted and desperately needed, and he was a fool for thinking that for even a second.

For a moment he considered simply pulling further back into the shadows and using the Force to remain unseen, but the deception seemed unfair. And anyway, he wasn't even sure he could right now, with this much spice in his system.

He wondered briefly why she had come here, of all places…and then wondered the same of himself. Here was where he'd severed the tie, on Palpatine's order. For her. To keep her safe. She didn't know that. She just knew that she hated him now, for hurting her. For leaving, when he'd sworn he never would—had put a ring on her finger, as proof.

Idiot; he was an idiot for marrying her, and an idiot for leaving her. An idiot for loving her in the first place—for ever thinking he could give her anything but grief.

He had to smile; that was a lot of idiot in just six months. A whole new level, even for him.

By the time that all of this had gone through his slurred thoughts she'd halted, gaze skipping the room in a brief search for the individual who'd had the status to be able to lock the door at all.

She froze when she saw him, arms lifting to cross against her ribcage, her ire sufficient that even in his present state Luke could sense it emanating from her in heated waves.

"Hey, Mara." He said it mildly, neutrally. "It was me—I locked the door."

She stared for a good long while, the silence dense between them, until he had to speak just to ease the lockjam in his own throat.

"Let me guess…if you'd known, you would have taken the hint, right?"

Still she stared, dark green eyes flashing briefly down to his hand—and he realized why. For a second he moved uncomfortably, then felt a flare of ire. Not at being judged, but at the sharp knowledge that had it been anyone else, he would have laughed in their face. It was the fact that it was her which made it bite keenly.

Stung and defensive, he lifted the spice stick to his lips to pull in a breath, looking away as he let the smoke trickle out with his words. "Seriously, you think the silent judgment act is gonna stop me? You think I give a damn what you think?"

The first salvo, launched more in defense than anger—but she didn't know that.

"Well don't you just go out of your way to prove you're the bad boy."

He had to laugh. "Actually no, it comes very naturally."

Her chin jerked in annoyance. "You think it'll impress him, this passive-aggressive waywardness?"

"Nothing impresses him," Luke murmured, knowing exactly who she meant.

"Wallowing in your own self pity, now?"

"You don't know anything about me. Not really."

"You forget, I've known you since you were twelve years old."

His head tilted as he looked to her. "That's right…you took regular swings at me then, too. Palpatine liked to establish those kinds of interactions early, I guess. Make sure they were good and deeply set, by the time we grew up."

She snorted derisively, looking away. "You had your chance to change them."

He glanced aside, lifting his chin to blow a neat ring of spice-smoke into the air. "I did… I guess the past always catches up with me. Old blood."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged, gaze fixed on the dissipating smoke to avoid the antipathy in her narrowed eyes as she loosed a brief huff.

"You just love your secrets, don't you."

How could he not smile at that? "They're not even mine—not really. I just keep them for other people…and I only do that because once you know, you can't un-know. All those secrets that everyone hid away, for their own ends. Old wars, old feuds, old grudges…old blood. I thought I could outrun them, but…"

"So now you think you've got something to prove—in front of Palpatine."

Luke took a long draw on the spice stick. "No. Been there, tried that. It doesn't work. Let me save you the trouble, if that's what you have in mind."

"Because I have so many reasons to believe anything you say."

"Why not? You believe everything _he_ says."

"You're not Palpatine. You never will be."

His shoulders shook in a brief, silent laugh. "Well that's the first nice thing you've said to me in a long time."

She narrowed her eyes, affronted. "If you hate him so much then go. Leave. Believe me, no-one will stop you. Least of all me."

"You know I tried once, a long time ago. Actually, I tried a few times, but only once for real, when I was old enough to know what I was doing. The other times I was just running. That time, I was leaving. I meant it…and he knew it."

She stared, but her silence was an invitation, so he took it. Maybe he shouldn't have. He seldom gave people any facts of his past, but she'd earned it, he supposed.

"He was a Baron, from Simidore. His name was Do Jorata. He was very tall and straight, and had dark hair and…I guess he looked a little like Bail Organa, from Alderaan. Maybe that was why I..." He broke off, then continued on a safer line. "Mid-level sovereignty who'd held a place in the crumbling Senate, so had access to the palace, and to Court. He had a kind face. He took the time to find out who I was. I saw him arguing with Viscount Indo a couple of times. I wasn't particularly interested in speaking to people back then but he made the effort, and he stayed with it, month in, month out. And eventually, he got me talking. Drew me out. He couldn't understand why I was still there. I could sense that quite clearly. He was…appalled. He wanted to get me away. He wasn't the first, or the last…but he was the one I learned my lesson from. He…sticks in my memory."

He paused again, giving her time to walk away. But she remained, so he continued. "I was thirteen. Palpatine was just starting to realize how strong my connection to the Force was, and was…looking to…reinforce his influence. Vader…well, Vader was just being Vader, that never changed. But I was getting old enough to look at him and wonder if maybe I didn't want his life to be my life. That was when Jorata came along. And like a fool I started to listen to him, to think it was possible." He allowed a brief laugh at his own naivety. "It's not like I shouldn't have known better. He arranged that I'd meet him on the outskirts of Coruscant at Siloh spaceport. I wanted to get out of the palace on my own. I already did that regularly so I knew I could, and that way no-one else would be implicated. I got to Siloh spaceport and his ship was there, a big consular ship, crew of twenty-five. But it was all quiet…too quiet. Not a soul, that I could sense.

"I went up the ramp anyway and…well, turned out that they were all there, scattered about in the main crew room. Literally. A torso here, a head there…no blood, you understand—well, barely any. All the wounds neatly cauterized on contact. But Palpatine had left a security holo of the whole thing playing over and over on the central console there, just in case it wasn't clear. And a command; I had one hour to get back to the palace. That was when I realized who wasn't there. I stole a speeder, made it in forty minutes, another five up to the Presence Chamber….and there was the Baron. And…" Another brief laugh. "See, stupidly, I'd assumed it was an 'either, or' situation. Turns out it was both. Palpatine was just waiting for me to get back, to cut him down. And his three Aides, still in the palace…and the two Imperial Guards that I'd gone past to get out when they were on gate duty…and one of my own aids, because…well, just because. Indo had sent him to find out where I was, and he found me in the corridor on my way up there, and followed. Bad timing, I guess."

He paused for a while, taking one last drag on the spice stick he held. "That was it…that was my lesson learned. I didn't try again. He put me in the medicenter too, of course…five days, that time. He didn't break anything, any more. He'd been told that some of the injuries were in danger of having permanent effect at that point, and as much as he throws tantrums, he doesn't break his own toys."

Mara stared for a long time, face stone…but her sense in the Force wavered just slightly. "Is any of that true?"

"You don't believe he's capable of that?" Luke rose, ignoring the buzz that made him sway as he threw the stub of the spice stick aside. "And I thought he did a job on me. You…you're his best work, Mara."

He was almost at the door before she spoke again. "Why should I believe anything you say?"

He forced a final dry laugh without turning. "Actually you're right, it's not all true. I'll let you find out which are the lies yourself."

.

.

.

.


	16. Chapter 16

.

.

 **CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

.

.

.

"ISD _Kreiger_ , this is the Alliance Destroyer _Kathol's_ _Pride_ …come in? I repeat, ISD _Kreiger_ , this is the _Pride_ , come in?" Wessler licked his lips as the system scrambled and transmitted the message.

Static sounded as Leia leaned on the edge of the comms board in the _Pride's_ crew pit, still close enough to pick out his individual nervousness as a spike within the general bridge-wide tension, where he stood on the walkway above.

They were inside the last span of Imperial-held space in the Rim systems—the Moddell system, to be exact—relying on the familiarity of their massive wedge-shaped Star Destroyer to buy them a little safety. The _Kathol's Pride_ had never had her Imperial markings scrubbed or changed since she'd been taken by the Rebels over Kathol, and her mainframe's ID transponder had been reloaded with a current Imperial code. She was, to all intents and purposes, a friendly in home territory.

Oddly, she was the first part of that in purpose too, today. Her objective was to rendezvous with the Imperial Star Destroyer _Kreiger_ , to escort it back over the border to Rebel-held territory.

The _Krieger_ was defecting.

That was all they had right now; they'd been contacted just a day ago by Moff Kessler's flagship, asking for asylum. No Kessler, of course, though they hadn't for one moment expected the Grand Moff who routinely held the entire Moddell sector against the Alliance's advance, to be onboard. But to have his flagship defect would be an incredible coup. Chances were that at least half of the crew onboard were unaware of just what was happening—they were just following orders, as usual—but that still left an awful lot of willing soldiers onboard, most of them high-level officers, hopefully in possession of all kinds of current intel.

"ISD _Kreiger_ ," Wessler repeated tightly. "I repeat, this is the _Kathol's_ _Pride_ …come in?"

" _Kathol's Pride_ , this is Captain Reder aboard the _Kreiger_. We have you on our scopes."

The ship had arrived moments before, and security codes had already been transmitted by both parties to confirm identities before either party was willing to transmit verbally over a secure frequency.

With the channel secure, Hollis straightened on the main walkway. "Captain Reder, this is Captain Hollis. Welcome to the Alliance."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to save the pleasantries until after we're over the border," Reder replied flatly, making Leia glance to Han, stood close by in the crew pit.

"Superstitious," Han intoned. "Don't count your chissin before they hatch."

Hollis spared a brief glare in Han's direction, but nodded to Wessler on Comms. "Captain Reder, we're transmitting a set of co-ordinates now. If you maneuver to match, we'll send lightspeed codes and we can be on our way."

"Confirmed, Captain Hollis. You have our—"

Leia sensed it a split-second before Lyto—who was staring at the screens of his Tactical station—stiffened.

"Captain, we have two Imperial Star Destroyers just emerged from hyperspace, coming in from port."

"Shields up!" Hollis yelled. "Helm, bring us about, get our guns to the incomings." His eyes flicked to Leia. "Are we protecting a lure, here—is the _Kreiger_ genuine or not?"

.

.

"Shields up," Captain Hagon said briskly on reversion from lightspeed, eyes flicking between the two unauthorized Star Destroyers before him. "Charge the batteries. ID's on the two Star Destroyers?"

"Sir, we have confirmation that the starboard one is the ISD _Kreiger_ ," Tactical said, watching his scopes. "The other—"

Hagon was already turning to his Comms officer. "Get the captain of the _Kreiger_ on the comm." He glanced back to Tactical. "The second Star Destroyer?"

"She has Imperial markings and transponders, Sir, but…"

"Sir, I have Captain Reder of the _Kreiger_ on comm."

"Put him through," Hagon said. "Captain Reder, this is the ISD _Reliance_ …you appear to be out of formation, Sir." As he spoke, Hagon glanced to his tactical officer, pointing to his own eyes and then to the _Kreiger_ , indicating to target the Destroyer.

"Captain Hagon, I'm on official business in regard to—"

"I repeat, you're outside of your allotted course, Sir. I've been ordered to request that you power down all systems, including shields, until we can clarify your status."

"Sir," Hagon's tactical officer spoke quickly, eyes on his scopes. "We're being targeted by the unidentified Star Destroyer."

Hagon nodded to his comms officer to cut the transmission as he glanced to his own back-up, whose nose was just visible to port. "Get a line to the _Hurricane_. Order them to target the unidentified Star Destroyer."

.

.

Leia licked her lips, fretting that the _Pride_ was in the thick of it so soon after her last ill-starred action. At least the _Steadfast_ —and therefore Luke—wasn't here. She reached out with the Force, searching for clarification to Hollis' question regarding the _Kreiger's_ authenticity, but it was distant and teeming with life. She needed to speak with its Captain—if she could do that, she could single him out and _know_. She was about to ask Wessler to open a line when Lyto stood, narrowing his all-black eyes.

"Sir, one of the hostile Star Destroyers is targeting the _Kreiger.._.the second is setting multiple weapons locks on us."

"Standoff," Han said a little too lightly, beside her.

"Target our opposite," Hollis ordered. "What's the _Kreiger_ doing?"

"She's been ordered on an open channel to stand down, but she's still moving to the supplied co-ordinates."

"How long?"

"About two minutes, for them to get into a viable lightspeed position."

Hollis glanced again to Leia. "Do we protect her?"

"…It's what we came here for," Leia said grimly. The _Kreiger_ had accepted the offer of an escort for fear of this exactly, when the Alliance had refused to simply hand over co-ordinates to a Rebel base. The escort offer hadn't been entirely altruistic; if the _Kreiger_ was a trap, then it only had the mid-jump break co-ordinates the _Pride_ had given it at this moment, rather than an existing base. Specific co-ordinates would only be supplied after the command crew were removed and a Rebel crew placed onboard, with the _Pride_ itself able to shadow every step of the way.

But unless this was an extremely elaborate hoax, it looked like the _Kreiger_ was genuine—which made it all the more imperative that they got it safely away. A defecting Star Destroyer and a high-ranking Captain holding all kinds of information would be a valuable coup. _If_ they could pull it off.

She glanced to Han beside her. "You're ex-Imperial navy—can we keep them talking for two minutes?"

"Two minutes?" Han asked. "Easy."

He'd barely said it when the space above them—above them _all_ —buckled.

Something vast snapped back into realspace with a thud of distortion whose shockwave made the deck beneath Leia's feet jolt, its scale incredible, the compression surge of its arrival triggering multiple shields to blare concussion warnings.

And suddenly it was _everywhere_ above them, a dreadnought of immense scale, its shadow stretching to cover the arena entirely, rendering the massed firepower of the four Star Destroyers present to little more than children throwing tantrums.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she stared, the wide run of viewports to the whole of the front of the _Pride_ unable to encompass its mass. Beside her, Han threw out a string of curses to match the moment, not stopping until he'd run out of breath.

When his eyes finally fell away to meet hers, he summed it up in a single word. "Gamechanger."

.

.

"We have reversion, Sir. All systems online."

There was a shiver of nerves in the helm officer's barked confirmation, to Luke's trained perceptions. But then he had two Sith—one of them the Emperor himself—as well as two Emperor's Hands on the bridge.

"Shields up," Admiral Griff said, all business. "Charge the batteries. Take us on sublight maneuvering thrusters to three clicks starboard, and tilt to fifty degrees—let's get a look at what we're firing on."

"Target practice," Shira murmured contently, eyes going to her Emperor to share her amusement. "That's all anything is, any more."

.

.

Onboard the _Pride_ Captain Hollis took a few slow steps forward, head lifting. Beside Leia in the crew pit, Wessler sat heavily into his chair at Comms.

Hollis turned quickly to Ops. "Are we recording this? Wessler, transmit it back to base, right now. Secure frequency."

It was the act of someone who wasn't entirely sure they'd make it back to report in person, Leia knew.

"Helm, take us on a ninety degree course down," Han barked, turning to Leia. "We need to get out of tractor range."

"Comm the _Kreiger_ , tell her to follow," Leia said, not ready to abandon their new ally yet.

.

.

Dressed in a heavy cloak whose cowl hood enclosed his face, Palpatine stepped to the front of the _Executor's_ bridge to survey the scene, as the Super Star Destroyer's lumbering rotation brought the field of action into view. It was the first time that he had made such an appearance, and the _Executor's_ bridge crew had been kept subtly back by Mara and Shira flanking him whilst Luke stood behind, a barrier of stony faces to maintain his unapproachable status.

Now Luke stepped closer to his side, speaking quietly, knowing he'd want clarification as he came to a stop at the very fore of the bridge, his back to its crew. "The nearest ship is the ISD _Reliance_ ; the _Hurricane_ is forty degrees off her starboard. The ship at ninety degrees to us is the renegade, the _Kreiger_ , and the far Destroyer—the one on the same course—is the unknown. Probably from one of the other remnants. They're likely maneuvering to make a lightspeed jump."

"Then stop them," Palpatine said simply.

Luke looked to Admiral Griff; this was his Destroyer. Griff let out a brief, heavy sigh, unease palpable, though he barked statutory commands.

"Tactical, program a long-range spread on three-tenth to both targets. Wide yield, penetrative and disruptive."

Luke remained close to Palpatine. "We need the _Kreiger_ as intact as possible. We can't afford to lose any Destroyers right now."

His Master hesitated a second then nodded briefly, eyes not leaving the arena. Admiral Griff was quick to acknowledge the stay of execution, his sense in the Force settling slightly as he made a brief nod in acknowledgment to Luke's glance, amending his last order.

"Tactical, reset the first spread to discharge ahead of the _Kreiger's_ path, disruptive and depth-charge—let's shake them up a little. Ops, calculate a course for tractor acquirement."

"Sir, their course is holding them outside of tractor range."

"Helm, co-ordinate with Ops. I want them in tractor range. Comms, get me a line to the _Kreiger_. Tactical, fire the warning barrage."

The _Executor_ didn't loose so much as a shiver as she unloaded what probably amounted to the firepower of three Star Destroyers in a single, sustained volley. It detonated in delayed, rolling explosions across the paths of the fleeing Destroyers, lighting space in an expanding flare of discharged power which blazed like a targeted nova, intense enough to darken the Bridge's photovoltaic viewports even at this range. For the two Star Destroyers under fire, it must have tested their shields and rattled both the ships and their crews.

The second time ever that the Emperor's flagship had opened fire, Luke reflected…and once again, it was on one of its own. The Empire was collapsing as much from within as it was from external pressure. He glanced to his Master, whose face remained hidden beneath the cowl of his robe, wondering briefly if even he could save it. If it was worth saving, at all.

"Sir," The voice of the tactical officer dragged his thoughts back to the moment. "The unknown Star Destroyer—we've identified it as transmitting a current Imperial ID from Moff Tain's Core Fleet."

"It's not from Moff Tain's fleet," Luke dismissed with certainty, having had the subtle differences between ship and hull-types drilled into him from an early age. "It's a Class-I; all the Core Fleet is Class-II."

"Unless he's appropriated a few from other fleets," Mara suggested, from a few steps to Luke's side.

He turned, the tactical discussion held in hushed tones, the necessity of the moment overriding any private discomfort; they were soldiers, first and last. "Tain's Core territories. That means that most of the fleets he'd have access to, all his immediate borders, are also Core Fleet. How many Class-I's would even be available in their ranks?"

She shook her head in assent. "Less than a dozen. Class-I's are mostly Rim Fleet."

Shira turned, dismissive. "What does it matter?"

"It matters because we want to know who's trying to recruit the _Kreiger_ ," Luke snapped. "If one of the other Imperial factions is willing to try to stand against us, we need to know who—particularly if it's Core Fleet. Pointing our guns at one Star Destroyer is a stop-gap. We need to deal with the cause, not the symptom."

Mara turned, as comfortable handing out orders on a Star Destroyer's bridge as Luke was. "Tactical—are we close enough to get a breakdown of the Class-type on the unknown Star Destroyer with long-range scanners?"

"No, Ma'am. We need to get closer for a fine-hull sensor sweep."

She glanced to Admiral Griff, who nodded. "Do so."

.

.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say I think they may be hacked off," Han said dryly.

The crew pit was still blaring with console alarms which hadn't yet been deactivated, with lesser warnings pipping and flashing for attention as the pit crew still gripped their consoles for balance, or pulled themselves upright. On the command deck above, Hollis and Commander Eckton were both scrabbling up from the concussion-wave that the massive artillery barrage had thrown in their path just seconds before.

"Shields?" Hollis yelled.

"Ninety seven percent, Sir," Lyto yelled. "It was a warning volley fifty-five clicks ahead and directly to our nose."

"Why didn't they target us directly?" Hollis asked.

"Presumably they want to know who they're about to blow to atoms," Han murmured, eyes on the viewports.

"Thanks," Taff muttered under his breath from the Ops station.

.

.

Palpatine took a short step forward, voice quiet, entire attention on the unidentified Star Destroyer. "They have the audacity to think that they can use one of my own ships against me?"

Luke frowned, feeling a brief, unsettling pang. Not the Force, just a creeping sense that he'd been here before, underlined by Palpatine's sentiments in the moment. That same flicker of outrage that an Imperial Star Destroyer would be turned against him…

It came back in a rush; Rhen Var; the Rebel-held Destroyer. Leia.

He took a step forward, eyes straining to make out details on the unidentified ship. Surely not? Yet it made a terrible kind of sense, in terms of territory and tactics. Turning, he glanced to the crew pit. "Tactical, cross reference the readings of the unknown Destroyer against the hull-type of a Tector-class."

Mara glanced to him. "You think it's the Rebel Destroyer?"

Palpatine tilted his head. "Rebel?"

 _Damnit!_ Luke was still chiding his unthinking input, as well as Mara's sharp ability to connect the dots, as she continued.

"We had a run in with a Tector-class ex-Imperial Star Destroyer in Rebel hands, over Rhen Var," she supplied, whilst Luke flexed his jaw. "At the time it didn't have counterfeit Imperial transponder codes or ID, but it may have acquired a set."

She moved to the crew pit and crouched to jump nimbly down, heading to the tactical console as she spoke. The Tac officer backed off, giving her access.

Mara leaned forward at the console, still standing. "Our logs from the _Steadfast_ should have been uploaded into the mainframe. I can pull them and…" Her voice trailed off as she worked, having obviously found the files.

Though no-one could see beneath the heavy folds of Palpatine's hood, Luke sensed the sneer that split thin lips. "A Rebel ship, trying to steal my own forces away from me? They think that if they trespass into _my_ territory I would ever allow them to leave? I'll rip them both to wreckage before I allow that."

"Sir, the unknown is slowing. It's maneuvering to put itself between the _Kreiger_ and our guns. The _Kreiger's_ accelerating clear."

Luke almost— _almost_ —reached out to the other Star Destroyer to search for Leia through the Force—but caught himself in time, aware that Palpatine would pick up on the focused burst of Force-power.

"I have the data," Mara said, straightening from Tactical. "It's a match! It has to be the _Relentless_ , captured a year ago over Kathol. It's a Rebel ship—that means the _Kreiger's_ defecting."

"Target the _Kreiger's_ sublight drives," Admiral Griff barked. "Stop her from accelerating."

"Sir, she's behind the _Relentless._ We have no line of sight."

Luke knew with a dreadful certainty what Leia was doing—that she'd stay until her ship was destroyed if she had to, trying to try to save the _Kreiger_ , a ship and crew she'd never even met. On principle.

"Get rid of it," Griff growled, focused on the task. "Helm, take us five degrees to port and two hundred clicks forward. Tactical, prepare to target the _Relentless'_ nearside, five-tenths volley. Bring her shields down. Set the next volley as wide yield disruptive. We can take her out in—"

"All-stop!" Luke shouted.

Admiral Griff glanced to Palpatine, looking for guidance. Pale yellow eyes turned, quizzical, as Luke stared, blank mind grasping for any thread… "We don't have _time_ for a firefight! If the _Relentless_ escapes it carries on operating outside of our borders and nothing changes. If the _Kreiger_ escapes they have flight plans, they know about the Death Star… They have the name of the man leading the new fleet."

Palpatine turned abruptly, eyes locking onto Mara. "Target the _Kreiger_."

"Bring us five degrees lateral to port, fifteen degrees tilt of axis," Luke said quickly, eyes on the helm officer as he strode to the edge of the crew pit. "Maneuvering thrusters only, no forward momentum. Now—go!"

"Helm answering, maneuvering thrusters only."

Luke looked to Mara, where she still stood at the tactical console, as the starfield outside tilted ponderously on its axis. "Re-target to the _Kreiger_ using only our rearmost trench guns. Target under and over the nose of the _Relentless_. It doesn't have the mass to protect the _Kreiger_ from a volley launched from something the width of the _Executor_. Split the payload as before, penetrative on the first volley, disruptive and explosive on the second. Consecutive volleys, two seconds between bursts."

Mara looked down to the console, fingers flying. "I have a clear line of fire on the last twelve starboard clusters."

"Fire; both volleys." He had no choice… As long as the _Kreiger_ was intact, Leia would stay.

Mara's hand went to the release…and she hesitated, finger hovering.

"Fire!" Palpatine hissed.

She looked up, expression torn, eyes pained—

Luke was in the crew pit within a second, already moving by the time he hit the floor, hand outstretched to knock hers aside as he slammed his palm down against the fire release.

The bloom of raw power thrown out from the _Executor_ was sufficient to light the bridge from space, casting sharp shadows as it skimmed over the Rebel Star Destroyer's hull to impact against the _Kreiger's_ defensive shields, consuming them in a single volley and rendering her utterly defenseless, as it would have done Leia, onboard the _Relentless_. It was a single breath before the second massive volley launched forth—those onboard would have barely had sufficient time to let out a scream before the ship was hit with a massive barrage of incoming laser and missile blasts, ripping her nearside hull to fragments in a flurry of explosions which turned the white flare of failing shields to the fiery orange of explosive concussions, exhausting the ship's oxygen in a single conflagration of sun-bright power.

It hit him a heartbeat later; the brief, truncated flare of wild horror that nine thousand souls snuffed from existence in a single instant could muster. A remembered echo of the first Death Star's dying spasms rolled over him, making him tense against the nausea, eyes closing as he braced to suppress a shudder.

When he was able to open them, they went instantly to his Master. Palpatine seemed unaffected by the vivid flare of violent death which had ripped through the Force. Instead he radiated his own pulse within it; that of raw fury, his eyes on Mara.

It was a second before Luke realized that Admiral Griff was shouting across the Bridge. "Target the Rebel ship—Tactical, target the Rebel Star Destroyer!"

Luke didn't relinquish the console but instead glanced down, eager to remain in control of the Tactical station and so the situation. He let his hands fly across the console's systems…but he took less than direct routes, going back to main menus when he could have jumped from subroutine to subroutine to acquire the next target.

To one side of the display a red warning flashed.

"The Rebel ship's accelerating." He glanced up as he said it; wasted a second more when normally he would have continued his task without pause …

The light flickered blue—then extinguished. "They're gone." He worked to keep any trace of relief from his voice. "They reached lightspeed."

Griff slumped a fraction, eyes turning to his Emperor. Luke too glanced to his Master in silence, jaw clenching…but Palpatine still glared at Mara, his rage cooling to a seething anger. For a second the tension held…then he stalked from the Bridge in silence.

Luke glanced once to Mara, where she stood beside him…then moved to follow.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The summons to Palpatine's chambers came far slower than Mara had expected; perhaps he'd given her time to reflect on her own failings. Perhaps he was simply stewing in his own fury. She walked down the wide battleship-gray corridor within his suite of rooms to where four stormtroopers waited to smart attention. The nearest stepped aside and pressed the door release without delay; clearly she was expected.

Time to face the music.

.

The vast, darkly-lit office required a few lengthy blinks to get used to its shadows, but there was no mistaking the brooding mass of Palpatine, stood at the wide span of viewports which stretched the far wall, his back to the room. The cloak that he had worn on the bridge was doffed, left where it had fallen partway across the vast chamber, so that he now stood tall and straight as he watched the _Reliance,_ the _Steadfast_ and the _Hurricane_ where they held at the edge of the _Krieger's_ debris field.

Mara came to sharp attention, steeling herself.

"I will not ask you to explain yourself," Palpatine growled without turning. "There is no possible validation that you can give which I will find acceptable. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

"Had these been more conventional times, I would have suspended you from active duty for your failure today."

A low sound from behind her caught her attention and she turned just slightly to realize that Luke was in the room, slouched low in a reclining chair just behind her that was turned out to face the lozenge-shaped viewport, and open space beyond. Sat in silence, his arm crooked on its armrest, his eyes were locked on the Rim system's distant darkness. He didn't move; didn't turn to acknowledge her. The memory of his slapping her hand aside to launch the volley that had destroyed the _Kreiger_ burned, and she felt her hands tighten to fists at her back.

"It was an Imperial Star Destroyer," she murmured at last, eyes returning to Palpatine. "An entire Destroyer. The numbers involved were… I don't believe that every man on that Destroyer could possibly have been aware of what was going on, or truly willing to defect. I hesitat—"

"When I give you an order, you act!" Palpatine whirled about, voice a roar of fury. "Instantly! You do not postulate an opinion, you do not second-guess. My decision is the only one that counts—the _only_ one! _I am Emperor!_ You job—your duty —is to execute _my_ will _. Do you understand?!"_

Head down, she glanced to the side, where Luke still sat in the same semi-slouch, narrowed eyes on the far distance, though his jaw flexed visibly and there was a tenseness to his studied repose as Mara brought her eyes back to her still-seething master.

"Your failure to act could have cost me my entire strategy. It could have cost me this campaign." Palpatine's golden eyes flicked aside for a fraction of a second. "You are neither a troupe nor a unit, I will not have you validate or defend each other's actions under any circumstances."

A brief moment of confusion set in at his words and the frustration contained within them... then realization made Mara fight to bring her gaze back to her feet, wondering whether Luke had tried to step in, in her defense. If so, it seemed he had only stoked the fire, as Palpatine raged on.

"Until you can act as you are charged without hesitation, you are useless to me—less than that, you are a hindrance. I am sorely tempted to send you back to Carida to retake the most basic stormtrooper training, since you clearly did not grasp its lessons…but what you do know is needed, so you are saved the ignominy. I don't want to see you on the Bridge tomorrow; return to your quarters, and reread the oath you took to me. Given your actions, I must assume that you either forget or dismiss its significance, both of which appall me."

"Master, I—"

"Get out."

She stared, heart pounding…but Palpatine had already turned away to stalk from the room into his private chambers beyond, leaving her still smarting.

Eventually she stirred and blinked, turning to walk to the door on autopilot. In doing so she passed the deeply upholstered chair in which Luke remained sat, having not once looked round through the whole tirade. Mara glanced to him, but he didn't turn—didn't acknowledge her at all, eyes remaining on the vast expanse of darkness beyond the viewport.

It had been just over a week since they'd spoken on the observation deck and he'd patently avoided her since then, becoming increasingly detached from everyone, the dry humor that he'd always nursed taking on a vicious edge. She stared a second, aware that he likely knew her thoughts were on him, but he didn't react; didn't turn. Finally she glanced to the door that their master had exited through, aware that he wouldn't return…then continued to the main exit.

"Your problem isn't that you made a mistake." He said the words quietly and tonelessly, without turning. "It's that you think if you do exactly as he commands, then he won't treat you like that."

She paused, surprised by the brooding monotone of his voice. Luke remained staring out into space as he continued, voice dryly dispassionate.

"It doesn't work that way. He'll still treat you like dirt, just for different reasons." Those dark-dyed eyes turned briefly towards her…then his gaze drifted away. "Don't take it too personally, he treats everyone like dirt. We all are, to him."

It was shocking, to hear the Emperor's advocate, his second in command, speak of him like that…but as there had been on the observation deck, there was a weary acceptance to the acerbic words which stopped her lashing out. "Why do you stay, if you think that?"

"Why do you stay?" he asked calmly.

"Because I don't believe it's true."

He finally rose, a fixed half-smile worn like armor as he walked around the edge of the room, enabling him to pass her without coming any closer. "Yes you do. You just don't let yourself think about it."

Reaching the door he pressed the release to let a flood of light from the corridor beyond permeate the shadowed room. Not so that he himself could leave; he was the Emperor's protector and would, as ever, wait here all night if he wasn't specifically released from duty—whatever else he was, he was the consummate soldier, Mara knew. He always had been. Instead, he inclined his head a fraction in invitation. Mara hesitated, then set forward, coming close enough that she caught the scent of spice-smoke in his hair. It smelled bitter…it smelled of Luke.

She was almost through the door before he loosed his final salvo, quiet and all too knowing.

"Believe me, there'll come a time when you can think of nothing else."

.

.

.

He sat in the silence on the floor of the empty room, eyes closed, legs crooked, one laid sideways on the floor, the other lifted at the knee so that his arm could wrap about it, head lolling forward slightly. It was as close as he ever came to formal meditation, Luke supposed. His Master had never taught him specifically how; a Sith did not sit and beg for connection with the Force. He did not commune or converse. There was no attempt to empathize or understand. One reached out and took it. Shaped it into a weapon or plundered it for knowledge. Directed and commanded it. Twisted it, it had often seemed to Luke.

But sometimes, of late, he did this; sat in solitude, and listened. Not _to_ the Force, but _through_ it. Quietly, subtly, dispassionately.

He could hear her now, sleeping. Could sense Mara's thoughts, diffuse and drifting. Occasionally they edged towards a dark knot of worries or frustrations, and he nudged them gently away and breathed deeply, content to do it.

Palpatine's harsh words tonight had unsettled her, as they had been meant to do. It had been the most natural thing in the world, then, for Luke to steal away when his shift had finished, and come here. The _Executor_ was vast, and those Palpatine trusted were very, _very_ few. Five levels were kept empty and sealed by coded locks above and below the quarters reserved for himself and his close staff—Mara included.

Luke had realized weeks ago, when walking the disused space to check that it was clear, that he could sense her here, above her rooms. Perceive the gentle ebb and flow of her thoughts, as she drifted to sleep.

There was something profoundly comforting in it. A stolen closeness, like watching her across a crowded room.

Tired, his own mind was drifting. Eyes closed, he was reminded of the few stolen nights they had spent together. Of the intimacy, physical and mental, that had wrapped about them in the velvet shadows. Of her breath on his neck as she slept. The scent of her, the warmth of her skin.

The drift of her thoughts turned again to the night's events, and again he guided them to smoother seas and set them adrift, letting her sleep in peace. But his own mind lingered, bringing a frown to his face at how much he'd wanted to come to her defense when Palpatine had turned on her. How much he'd wanted to reach out and hold her, when they were finally alone. He'd been harsh with her instead, to enforce his own distance and therefore her safety, yet now he felt worse than ever.

Felt that in trying to protect her, he'd disheartened her all the more. Felt… _felt._

His feelings for her now were no less now than they had ever been. That was what he felt. What he knew.

" _She'll break your little black heart. She will…because you'll break hers. You can't help it, it's who you are. It's what he made you."_

Shira's words seemed prophetic, now. Unyielding, beneath his guilt. And somehow unfulfilled, despite everything. Unfinished with him, as if every minute that ticked by was still counting down…

He opened his eyes, unsettled by the whispers in the darkness;

" _It's who you are. It's what he made you."_

The words blurred, in sense more than sound, trickling into a future echo of his own voice—

" _I once told you that everything I was, you made me. And I remember…I remember how pleased you were."_

" _She'll break your little black heart. She will…because you'll break hers."_

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _—h_ _e shouldn't be here, Luke knew_ _۰_

That fragment of an old vision jolted him, firing every nerve in every muscle so that he wrenched upright, staggering back three fast paces, chest heaving in shock.

He reached out mentally…but the brief tendril that had connected past and future with the same splinter of absolute knowledge was gone, its energy spent in the moment. Its echo left a chill on his skin, though, making the shadows about him crawl.

Uneasy, he turned and left, unwilling to infect this place with their darkness.

.

.

.

.

He was officially off-duty, though that meant little unless he had been given leave to retire by Palpatine, which he hadn't sought out before his brief and unsettling trip. So his feet took him unbidden back to the long, wide corridor which led towards the guards and his Master's quarters. He should enter the outer rooms at least, he knew, to do a visual check. It was past midnight, and he'd been gone almost an hour. Nothing was amiss—he would have known instantly if it was—and even if it were, Palpatine was more than capable of looking after himself.

He slowed at the doors, torn—and they slid aside. Dasco, head of the night watch, lifted his head as Luke stepped through, nodding as he made a brief military snap of his heels, though he kept his voice quiet due to the hour.

"General. The Emperor was asking after you."

"You should have commed."

"I would have…he stopped me."

Chosen by Luke for this assignment, Dasco was a career soldier who still retained enough integrity to be able to split his consideration accordingly. Corellian by birth, he was a tad too straight-laced to remind Luke of…of Solo, though just occasionally the tilt of his head and his turns of phrase made Luke smile.

But not right now. He let out a slow sigh instead of cursing. "He still awake?"

"The Emperor is wide awake, yes."

There was just the barest fleck of Corellian irony and forewarning in the reply as Luke reached the far door, and this time it twitched a smile to the edge of Luke's mouth as he passed, silently wondering if he had chosen Dasco based solely on his need to fill the void with something familiar.

Then the doors slid open, and he walked willingly into the darkness.

He crossed the outer chamber without pause, entering the next in a series of rooms, knowing it too was empty. At the next set of doors he hesitated a fraction…then entered.

Palpatine didn't look up from the wide expanse of desk that mirrored his image; didn't acknowledge Luke's entrance at all. He should perhaps have knocked—everyone else did. But it seemed a pointless gesture. His Master had known he was coming, and he had known his Master was waiting.

He halted just within the chamber as the door slid closed behind him, waiting out the moment until Palpatine spoke.

"Where were you?"

"I needed to make a brief check of…"

Ocher eyes lifted but remained hooded, Palpatine's lineless face completely neutral. Luke trailed to silence, watching as his Master's hands lifted slowly, slim fingers steepling before his face, voice coldly knowing.

"How many times have we had this discussion?"

"Enough."

"Then would you care to explain to me again where you were?"

Luke clenched his jaw as he looked down, aware that he had no excuse.

"Am I required to make the same series of explanations again?"

"No."

"No…?"

"No, Master."

"Do I need to point out that my advocate, the man with whom I trust my life, was absent, leaving me unguarded."

"You're on a Star Destroyer."

"I died on one a year ago," Palpatine bit out. "You were absent then, too."

Luke looked down, clamping his jaw against the apology that came automatically to his lips. Palpatine sighed deeply, clasped hands resting against his mouth as he studied Luke. As if coming to a decision, he stood and set forward, consciously taking the edge from his voice.

"The standards that I demand of you, the pressures that I place on you, are for your own advancement. A blade can only be tempered in the heat of fire."

"I'm not a blade. I'm not a tool to be honed or used. I have a mind of my own."

Palpatine lifted an eyebrow. "Autonomy, like trust, must be earned."

"I tried that."

"It is a lifelong commitment, not a brief negotiation. It should be steadfast, unwavering…absolute."

"You've had my life—my entire life to date. Willingly."

"And in return I have awarded you status. Rank. Recognition and advantages that I give no other."

"But not the one that counts."

"Which is?"

"You just said it; autonomy. You don't even give me that in thought, let alone action."

"You're young."

"I'm seventeen."

"Seventeen…" There was so much condescension crushed into that single word. "You don't even comprehend what you are, yet—what you have the potential to become. Or perhaps you believe that you idled away the year that I was absent, in _finding yourself_?"

"…No."

Palpatine tilted his head. "Yet you've abandoned all that I taught you."

Luke looked down, scowling, and Palpatine reached out to take his chin, lifting it with inexorable strength. "You don't comprehend, child," he murmured, pale eyes flicking as he studied Luke's dispassionately. "Without the Force you are nothing. Nothing at all. Another insignificant mote of humanity. Another piece of drifting detritus, of interest to nothing and no-one."

"Is it so terrible to be normal?"

Palpatine shook his head, a mordant little smile twitching his upper lip in distain. "You will never be that—not you. You're too broken, and you know it. _I_ know it."

"Because you did it." The brief flare of resentment in his words only widened his Master's smile.

"I broke you apart to make something greater. Something altogether more rare and valuable."

"To you."

"Ah the ignorance, the insolence, of youth. I've given you the greatest gift imaginable, the ultimate boon. The path to ultimate power is laid out beneath your feet…and yet you falter. Why?"

Luke paused, brow pulling into a frown. "I…don't know."

"And yet your Master does—can see so clearly that you are still allowing others to turn your head. To lure you from that exceptional path."

Luke shook his head quickly. "I don't—I don't. I…" He hesitated, wary of allowing too much to be dragged from him by this play of rare indulgence. "I just…there are other paths. There isn't only one."

"For you, there is. You are seventeen," his Master reminded affectionately. "To chafe at the bit—to test your own internal beliefs and motives and ambitions—is natural…even when you know the truth in your Master's words."

Luke remained silent, stifling the desire to retreat as Palpatine moved one hand to wrap strong fingers about the back of his neck, voice a whisper.

"Tell me what you want, and I will tell you how the Sith doctrines will gain it for you."

He glanced down, pulling subtly against his Master's hold, too battle-scarred to be persuaded into admitting the truth this way. "I don't want anything."

"Of course you do. You crave what you cannot have. It's human nature."

"I don't want anything," Luke repeated quietly, eyes down. "Nothing that the Force can gain me."

Palpatine straightened a fraction. "Then you have small dreams indeed. Small and pitifully sad."

"Perhaps they're just normal."

"Mundane," Palpatine corrected. "Unbefitting."

They both knew what they were talking about.

"And what would you have them be?"

"Equal to your abilities. Befitting to your station."

"They're already greater than both," Luke held, because neither could coerce nor compel them. "That's what makes them of value."

"And yet they can be so easily broken," Palpatine growled. "Shattered and torn down. So delicate, these base needs that you place such store by. So fragile…in thought and in the flesh."

Luke faltered as the threat moved from himself to Mara, and Palpatine instantly softened his voice to pitying tones.

"See how weak it leaves you, this thing that you value so much. How vulnerable, that a few words can cut you to the quick. Why would you possibly crave such mundane—such _human_ —failings? I have invested years in imbuing you with the ability to step beyond such limitations, by your own will. With the ability to fill that base and common void with something infinitely more precious. It will never abandon you nor weaken you. Even now, it waits patiently to be summoned once again. Waits to envelop and embrace you. To fulfill your every need and desire as nothing else can. Nothing. These petty and unfitting dreams, they will never touch the power, the connection, the unconditional servitude that Darkness can offer you."

"I don't need them to," Luke said quietly, wondering if his Master could ever understand. "I don't want them to."

Palpatine stared, hand falling free, lips pressing to a thin line…and Luke saw the sea change; watched that calculating mind abandon this premeditated temperate approach for another tack.

"Let me make myself very clear: this worthless infatuation will stop. Now. As will this brooding streak of dispossessed defiance which is fed by it. I have given you every opportunity to reach this conclusion of your own accord, but as ever, I find I am forced to make the decisions which you cannot. Will not."

"I have a right t—"

"I will tolerate this willful flaw no longer," Palpatine said forcibly over Luke's words. "If it continues past this point I will take decisive action to deal with it, do you understand?"

Luke glared in silence, jaw clamped.

Palpatine's lip twitched as his chin rose. "Am I forced to clarify the extent of my resolve? Tell me now, and I will do so tonight. Right now."

For a second Luke held on to his defiance…then his gaze broke, knowing his Master wouldn't bluff—why should he? There was no conflict, to his coolly dispassionate mind. No contradiction in carrying out the threat, despite having known Mara for as long as he'd known Luke. All he saw was a path to ensure his own demands.

The breath left Luke in a long sigh, dropping his shoulders.

"No." Silence hung, expectant…until he broke, glancing down. "…Master."

"This is the last time that we will have this discussion," Palpatine growled. "There will be no further warnings; I will simply take action. I told you when you were seven years old that I was not only your Master, but your savior. If I must once again save you from yourself, then so be it. I will not shirk from the task. I will not stand by and watch you squander all that I have taught you and invested in you. Have I made myself _very_ clear?"

"Yes…Master."

"Then get out of my sight."

.

.

.

.

Luke sat in the dark of his quarters, aware of Palpatine's fury as a mental storm which roiled and rumbled at the edge of his senses, despite his distance.

Troubles ticked round in his head, unhalting. His words to Mara earlier this evening, when he'd once again dropped his shields, unable to help himself. Palpatine's reaction, on realizing his weakness.

His knowledge of both. Palpatine wouldn't back down, and Mara wouldn't allow herself to see the danger…. Tick, tick, tick… A neat little time bomb, counting down to explode.

It was almost four in the morning and he was sat, still dressed, at the cluttered desk in his otherwise sterile quarters onboard the _Executor_ , the room lit by the faint glow of the Kuat system's distant sun, which filtered through the layers of smoke drifting from the spice stick balanced on the spent stub of its predecessor.

Deathly tired but unable to sleep, he sketched idly, mind numb from too many sleepless nights. For a moment his thoughts drifted towards lucidity as he stared at the flimsiplast sheet…and he realized that he'd sketched Han. Dryly amused, he reflected how many problems he used to take to Han once—and found himself lifting the flimsyplast and folding it midway so that it stood like a card, leaving the sketch of Han now upright, staring back at him. Thoughts swimming in spice, he slammed the stylus down on the table with exaggerated purpose, amused at his own nonsensical actions.

"Okay, so this is a problem in three parts, right? See, you know Palpatine—he won't stop being paranoid and demanding, or acting to ensure everyone's full attention is on him. And Mara…well, you've not met her, but let me tell you even when she's in too deep she'd never allow herself to see the danger, not if it got in the way of her intentions. Sound familiar?" He tilted his head, and froze as the room spun giddily, making him blink rapidly against the effects of the spice. "But _un_ like you, she trusts Palpatine absolutely. Trusts him like I…like I used to. More, I think, because she was never there, day to day. She never… _saw_ —never had to. So she won't see that threat now. Nothing I say will make her, and the more I try the more likely she is to tell Palpatine, which would endanger her more because Palpatine would know that I was trying to tell her the truth, so he'd be even more likely to remove her. And even if I got her to see, if she changed her behavior only slightly as a result Palpatine would work it out and remove her anyway, because she'd been compromised.

"So that leaves just me, to try to steer a course through all this…which is never a good thing, right?"

Luke paused, looking at the rough sketch he'd made of Solo with one eyebrow raised in that typical bemused half-challenge that he'd always thrown at life in general. Han's answer would be what it always was, of course, the same thing he pitched at Luke for anything: leave. Just somehow walk away from his entire life and all its responsibilities. And then magically, all Luke's problems would be solved, and he'd live happily ever after in some mythical, self-fulfilled silver-lined feather-soft life. Only it didn't work out that way in the real galaxy. Not for Luke.

Han…he'd found a place he felt he belonged. Found someone to be with who didn't entirely ruin his life and drive him to distraction on a daily basis, as Luke always had. It had all worked out—for Han.

For Luke…not so much.

His brief, enforced severance from the Empire had hardly been a sparkling success. But then again his return to the fold wasn't going so fantastically either, all things considered. Which meant what?

Lifting the stylus again, Luke tapped its nib against the table as he considered… maybe the fault was with himself, then. Maybe he was too screwed up to make anything work, ever.

"Nice," he murmured to himself. "Excellent example of positive thinking. Well done, you."

So what the hell _was_ the more positive line—the one that Mara had said he was…what was the phrase she'd used, in some argument…'Pathologically incapable of taking'.

He laughed dryly; maybe he hadn't given Solo's whole AWOL idea a fair hearing back on Coruscant, when he'd originally… Luke paused as the notion played out in his mind, deeply disturbing:

"Leave." He said it slowly and quietly, speaking the inconceivable out loud even as he shied back from it. Because it was, of course, unthinkable; outrageous…

And yet it solved every problem in a single act.

He couldn't stop Palpatine being Palpatine, and he couldn't convince Mara just what that truly meant… But if he left—if he removed himself from the equation entirely—then he effectively negated the problem. There was no _need_ to try to exert any kind of influence on either Palpatine or Mara, because there was a third component to this equation: himself. And if he removed _any_ single part of the problem, then he effectively nullified it entirely.

It was the most logical step. He couldn't persuade Mara to go, and Palpatine wouldn't ever back down. The only other option, then, was to remove himself. It was that simple.

…Was it that simple?

Could he do it? Could he walk out of here, now?

Could he knowingly fail his Master as completely and premeditatedly as his own father had?

Luke rose slowly, abandoning the stylus to fall unheeded to the floor as he walked to the angled viewport, eyes on the vast, unbound span of space. Could he do it?

How many times had Han claimed it was the only answer. But it hadn't been—not then. Not when it had only been himself and Palpatine in the equation. Now…now, if he did this he was defying his Master's wishes in the most absolute and premeditated manner possible…for another. To save a life that mattered to him. that was enough…wasn't it?

Was that enough? Enough to rip his own life, his sense of self, to shreds?

Something was curling painfully tight within his chest, making it hard to breathe.

" _Your father was a traitor,"_ Palpatine's accusation weeks ago, hissed with such venom, rang through his erratic thoughts. " _And there is nothing as vile and as base as a traitor._ "

" _I'll make up for my father's failure."_ His own words, when backed into a corner by Palpatine. But had it been that? Had his father's attempts to protect another been so wrong?

" _Always the disappointment…"_

He leaned his head gently to the cool transparisteel of the viewport, watching his breath frost its surface. Watching the glowing orb of Kuat's luminous penumbra reflected in the dense darkness. Close by, the _Steadfast_ was a play of light and shadows, a silent sentinel dwarfed by the _Executor's_ monumental bulk. His mind wandered to Rishi, where the _Steadfast_ had first caught up with him. Rishi, where this had all started. Rishi…..

Where Luke still had an undisclosed freighter in deep storage.

.

.

Walking down the long, dull gray corridor was a strangely heightened experience, with the knowledge that this was the last time. Before, he'd been pushed from his old life by force. Necessity, not choice.

His mind raced, a heady mix of spice and adrenaline. He was going to do this. He was actually going to do it.

In a strange way Palpatine had only himself to blame. Because Luke wouldn't stand by and live through that moment again, with another—couldn't. The death of his adoptive parents was one of the most soul-shattering events in his life, and it had left a scar too deep to ever heal. The act which Palpatine had used to break him and bind him through guilt and pain had remained a devastating flaw—even Luke could see that. And Palpatine had picked at it constantly to control him; the knowledge that the inherent weakness of his attachment to them had been the very thing which had caused Bail and Breha's deaths. But that same fear—that through hesitation and inaction he might lose another close to him—now fired him to defy Palpatine entirely.

There was a certain irony to it… Were it not for the fact that to go against his own Master was in itself tearing Luke in two, he might have appreciated that. As it was, all else was outweighed by the fact that at the last, the one thing which had defined Luke's identity and his entire life's actions to date—his loyalty to his Master—was fundamentally flawed.

His Master had been right all along, then: Luke remained, always, the profound disappointment.

.

.

.

.

.

Onboard the _Executor_ , Captain Traas was standing the graveyard shift when the request came in from Comms.

"Sir, I have a priority message from Commander Elliss onboard the _Steadfast_ , on behalf of General Antilles. They're informing us they're about to break formation and enter lightspeed."

Traas turned, scowling; he'd heard nothing of this. "To where?"

"Undisclosed, sir. It's on General Antilles' order."

Ops had already informed him of General Antilles' shuttle journey over to the _Steadfast_. The General was second-in-command to Palpatine himself, and so could of course issue this kind of unilateral directive. The fact that it was the middle of the night was irregular…but then a lot of what General Antilles did was, in Traas' opinion, anomalous. To put it mildly.

He nodded, thoughts moving on. "Acknowledge, and request any unclassified details for the log. If none are available request a mission cipher."

He glanced only briefly to the _Steadfast_ , already maneuvering for her jump. Within the minute, she was gone.

.

.

.


	17. Chapter 17

.

.

.

.

* * *

 ****LOOK!****

 **.**

 **I SHOULD TAKE A MO TO POINT OUT HERE THAT I WROTE THIS CHAPTER ABOUT A YEAR AGO—WELL BEFORE THE FORCE AWAKENS CAME OUT (KATAJA, YOU CAN VOUCH FOR ME, RIGHT?!).**

 **MADE ME LAUGH AT THE SIMILARITY WHEN I SAW THE MOVIE — YOU'LL KNOW WHICH SCENE I MEAN WHEN YOU REACH IT!**

 **.**

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

.

.

It hadn't exactly gone to plan.

Luke had ordered the _Steadfast_ directly to Rishi, with no breaks or backtracks to cover his trail. They seemed pointless, since the moment that the _Steadfast_ came out of lightspeed the command would come in from the _Executor_ for them to return to the fleet. Even if he ordered comms silence he knew that someone onboard would be an agent, and would break the comms blackout to send a brief outgoing comm to Palpatine's Super Star Destroyer confirming their position, at which point Palpatine would doubtless make it clear that the _Steadfast_ was not operating under his order.

Which meant that Luke had about the amount of time that it took for one outgoing illegal comm to be sent, then received and decoded onboard the _Executor_ , and passed on to Palpatine, and for Palpatine to then send a reply on the same coded frequency…to get himself _off_ the planet and safely into lightspeed on the freighter he couldn't remember the name of, but knew he had hidden in deep storage in Rishi's Equator-9 spaceport.

All of which would have been fine, had the anonymous agent—or agents, knowing his Master's paranoia—not actually managed to send off a coded message moments _before_ the _Steadfast_ had entered lightspeed. Efficient.

Annoying.

The single fact in his favor was that it seemed the reply to the transmission had not been fast enough to arrive before they'd entered lightspeed, so that whilst the comm must have been waiting for them the moment they emerged at Rishi, Luke had at least reached his destination—and in a Star Destroyer; an important factor in his plan. An Imperial Star Destroyer outside of its territory would attract all kinds of interest, none of it friendly. They were hardly in danger, but taking up orbit around a neutral planet gave the _Steadfast's_ command crew more things to worry about than a single rogue shuttle leaving their bay.

So it all would have worked fine…had someone not managed to get that damn message off without his knowledge, enabling them to receive its reply the moment the _Steadfast_ came out of lightspeed.

As it was, Luke had barely made it off the Destroyer. Fortunately, being in his office to the rear of the bridge, he'd picked up on the sense of confusion which had suddenly imbued the command crew on duty moments after they'd emerged from lightspeed. Aware of that, he'd sensed the slow shift to disbelief, then alarmed acceptance on Commander Elliss' part when he'd likely received an internal comm, attached to which would have been the illicit and probably pretty irate external comm from the _Executor_.

By the time confusion had congealed into a decision to act, Luke had already walked calmly from the rear exit to his office, which led out into the turbolift corridor behind the bridge, and made a hasty exit.

He was in a shuttle and off the Destroyer within minutes, probably leaving a scene of controlled bedlam behind. Certainly before he'd made it down to the surface to land illegally at the edge of the ramshackle border port that he'd left the freighter stored in months earlier, they'd started to figure out what was going on.

A run of tense incoming comms to his shuttle demanding acknowledgment had been ignored, and he'd used a Hand code and some creative re—or rather _de_ —wiring to disable the shuttle's locator ID. It was temporary—military shuttles didn't fly without their transponders active; that was hard-wired across the board…but you could emergency-land one by disabling enough other systems to persuade the shuttle that it was suffering shipwide damage.

Still, he was already regretting his decision to land to the edge of town in an attempt not to draw too much attention to himself from local law-enforcement. It had been a gamble, but as they were in most spaceports, the local barracks were close to the port entrance, and they may well have been alerted to be on the lookout for an AWOL military shuttle. Lambda's were distinctive enough, without landing one on their doorstep.

Now though, making his way through the vaguely familiar backstreets by memory, he'd watched six probably stormtrooper-crowded gunboats come in to land long before he'd reached the spaceport himself.

So it had turned into a cat-and-rat chase, which generally he liked—but then generally, he was the cat.

His hand brushed briefly against his lightsaber for reassurance as he pressed back against the moss-green wall close to the spaceport entrance. He had no need to do anything as blatant as lean around it to know that there was a gunboat and thirty-plus stormtroopers in four-man elements in and around the only entrance to the port…and so his ship.

 _Falcon_ —that was it; the _Millennium Falcon_! What the hell bay had he left it in?

Ninety-nine, south access corridor…that was right, wasn't it? He dropped back around the corner and leaned his head against the rough, moss-covered wall behind him; first, he needed to get them out of the way.

The gunboat was irrelevant; he could get a solid Force-grip and flip it. Ironically, it was the four-man elements spread widely about the square which were problematic. One or two units were immaterial; they didn't represent sufficient numbers to slow a Sith down for more than a few seconds…but that was enough time for the third unit of four to react—which would gain _another_ extra second for the fourth unit to react…and so on. If they scattered even more, it slowed him further in dealing with them, simply in terms of reaching each—

"Halt! Hands up—get your hands where I can see them."

The voice came from behind him, and made Luke wince, part in acknowledgment and part in self-censure at having been crept up on. His senses, already widely scattered across the square beyond, picked up on the instant jolt of wary responsiveness which buzzed through the many minds there; they were on open comms, then. Already he was zeroing in on the unfortunate trooper behind him, though; unfortunate because Luke had no intention of complying, and not enough time to be subtle, as shouts from the port entrance behind him accompanied the sound of running boots.

He didn't even bother to turn. By the time he'd glanced to the side street which would be his escape route the trooper behind him had already let out a brief, truncated yelp as he was lifted bodily and hurled with unchecked force against the high wall of the passageway, impacting with a crunch of heavy armor which dislodged fragments of moss, bright green flecks and dark red fluid scattered and spattered in equal measure.

Setting off down the narrow passageway he looked up; four stories—a little too high, even for a Sith. But too many voices were shouting out as he ran full-tilt down the narrow road, eyes on the far exit. Reaching the corner he used his hand to gain purchase for a sharp turn to the right, then took the next right again. It gained him a brief second out of sight, in which he looked to the nearest closed window frame, using the Force to apply pressure. The framed panes sprung back on their hinges, and he scrabbled inside in moments. Pausing, he turned to close the window and dropped to the ground, pulling the frame gently closed with the Force.

"Spread out, four by four. Are the drones active yet?"

"Sir, we have two drones active, and we're patching into the local law enforcement's camera network. It's basic, though. They only have eighteen lenses in this area."

Something itched at the back of Luke's awareness, dividing his attention. He forced his mind to the moment as the troopers passed, footfalls receding.

"Have we got the tracker active?"

 _Something…_

"They're having some trouble with the frequency, sir. It's some kind of local distortion. It'll take a few minutes more to…."

 _Wait—tracker?_ Unable to hear as the troopers moved away, Luke was already on his feet and running through into the next room to follow the conversation as the troopers strode past outside. He reached the window and risked leaning forward, tilting his head to see further. For a second the four troopers continued onwards in the wake of another unit, the first unit moving forward in tactical two's, the second unit gathered closer, attention on something one of them held that Luke couldn't see from this angle— when abruptly the group stopped.

"Got it—got the uplink!" The trooper's triumphant voice was loud enough to carry, as Luke froze, staring. Bad, _bad_ feeling….

A second later the whole group turned about, looking directly at the building, blasters raising.

" _Kuso_!" Luke was already backpedaling, looking for the exit. The apartment door was locked, and he wasted a few seconds trying stupidly to yank it open physically before he took a half-step back and held out his hand, fingers splayed.

The first shot burst through the transparisteel window behind him, lighting the room and impacting on the wall to his left in a bright burst of power which scattered fine shrapnel across him, stinging unprotected skin.

In the same moment the door barring his way wrenched backwards, still embedded in the heavy jamb which it was locked to. It angled to horizontal as it came, lifting slightly to clear Luke's head by inches, though he didn't flinch, confident of his own fine control even at this speed and power.

He loosed his mental hold as it cleared him and was already through the doorway when another blaster bolt blew the lock of the main external door of the hallway he ran into. A moment later a stormtrooper shouldered the door open, then instantly ducked down to give his comrades a clean line of fire—and this time Luke saw it. One trooper to the rear of the unit was carrying a screen cylinder, a small handheld which projected a virtual holo-screen, receiving its signal from elsewhere. On it, still easy to recognize from back to front, was a street map.

He launched for the stairwell as more shots splashed into the wall behind him, his mind racing. _Screen, map, tracker._ He had a tracker on him somewhere—in his clothes, more than likely. There was nowhere he could run that they couldn't follow him.

He was up another two flights already, voices close behind him, though the turnbacks of the staircase precluded any clear shot. At least they were using stun-shots, their bright white flare and rippling light pattern instantly identifiable. Still, wouldn't be a whole hell of a lot of reassurance when he woke to face Palpatine asking him just why exactly he'd re-routed a Star Destroyer and gone AWOL.

Luke lifted his hand to another locked door—and for a brief moment felt it again; that itch at the back of his mind: familiarity. Another force-sensitive. Was it Mara…Shira? It wasn't Palpatine. Palpatine would have already reached out mentally to harangue him, Luke knew.

Bursting into the apartment he glanced about; living room, kitchenette…internal corridor. He twitched to the side and ran down it at speed, scrabbling as his feet lost purchase on polished tiles, heading for the open door at the far end. At the entrance of the apartment he could sense his pursuers slowing, more wary as they entered an enclosed space where their quarry was trapped.

"General Antilles? General! You need to stand down, sir!"

At least the group leader was trying to be civil.

Luke glanced about the room, taking it in. Bed, dresser, wardrobe—perfect! He rushed forward and flung it open, praying that the occupant wasn't female. Finally something went his way, and the clothes in the wardrobe were human male…ish. Grabbing pants and a garishly-patterned shirt, he turned to the window. The troopers were starting to make their way towards the noise in two's.

"Sir, I'm asking you one last time to stand down and step out into the—"

Luke didn't hear the rest. He'd already run full-tilt for the tall window, using the force to blow the panes outwards. One foot lifted to the inside sill to give him some leverage…then he jumped without hesitation. He was clear and halfway across the drop before he realized there wasn't an adjacent window in the opposite building.

With a gasp he loosed his hold on the Force a little to drop downwards, his forward momentum carrying him across the passageway and towards an open window a level down. Hunching, he braced, throwing a solid wall of Force energy out before him—

And fell into the new room amid the shattering transparisteel, his shoulder catching as he cleared the fractured frame so that he tumbled awkwardly into a half-roll, the lightsaber hilt at the small of his back grinding into his skin and the clothes he'd stolen scattering as he fell. For a second he just lay there, getting his breath…but already he could hear shouts in the street outside, and his brain clicked in with necessities. Clothes—now.

Rising, he let out a brief groan but dragged the clothes to him and kept moving through the new apartment, yanking the _Falcon's_ entry chipcard free of his inner jacket pocket to clench it between his teeth whilst he shucked his jacket and slid off his belt, snatching his saber free to hold it awkwardly as he pulled his shirt over his head, abandoning them as he ran forward. A row of boots were stacked in casual disarray by the door, and as he passed them on his way out he frantically dug through, looking for anything even remotely close. They were tiny.

"What the hell, are they all Ewoks?!"

His hand was lifting, preparing to use the Force to wrench the entrance door free, when he heard troopers in the hallway outside. Swinging about, he ran back into the empty apartment, hopping as he did so to kick his boots off. The main room had a tall set of glass doors out onto a balcony—and on Rishi, where there was one balcony, there were generally more.

The first heavy thud to the entrance door behind him made Luke mumble a curse around the _Falcon's_ entry chipcard, still clenched between his teeth. Shrugging out of his pants, he wrenched at the balcony door.

Sure enough, a long run of balconies along the front of the block-long apartments overhung the narrow street outside and, naked and barefoot, with the stolen clothes still clutched to him, saber hilt tangled somewhere within them, he swerved to the side and began an extended run-and-hop along the row, two to each apartment, ten or twelve in all. By the next to last one he figured that he'd used his available time and if he didn't want the troopers—who must have broken into the first apartment by now and worked out that he'd left the tracker in his clothes behind—to simply see him and start shooting, he needed to get out of sight. Clearing the dividing rail to the next apartment, he shouldered into the double-doors and fell through in a heap.

Gasping, he rolled to his feet—and came face to face with a Twi-Lek girl around his own age, sat to a keyboard before which a holo of some netwide shopping site spun images of a pair of purple spangled boots. She stared through them at him, jaw dropped…and her eyes, naturally, travelled slowly down.

For a second Luke stared, clothes bundled to his groin…then he blinked, and shook his head. "What the hell, there's no good way to do this."

Dropping the clothes on her bed, he pulled the pants free and did a triple-hop to get into them, leaving them unfastened in his haste. Stuffing his saber hilt into a leg pocket, his hand was reaching out for the shirt when he realized that he'd just spoken—where was the chipcard to activate the _Falcon_?!

"Card!" He looked to her. "I had a chipcard in my mouth!"

Still staring open-mouthed, she pointed in silence to the underside of the bed.

Luke dropped to his knees and grabbed it, feeling a rush of relief. It dissipated a second later when the door to the girl's bedroom slammed open and what was presumably her father stormed in, visible only from the ankles down to Luke, still halfway under the bed.

"What did you just dro—what the _hell?!"_

Everyone froze…

"Okay," Luke stood, forced to grab the waist of his cargo pants to hold them up. " _Not_ what it looks like."

The big Twi-Lek let out a yell and lunged forward, forcing Luke to jerk aside and clamber up onto the room's bed, crossing it in a single unsteady jump to head for the door.

In the corridor, an older Twi-Lek female who was walking casually forward let out a yelp of surprise as Luke tumbled into the hallway, colliding with the far wall then pushing instantly off to run past her, shirtless and with one hand holding up his stolen pants, the father in close pursuit.

He made the door at a dead run, and yanked it open to burst into the corridor. Two levels down in the stairwell more stormtroopers, milling around and waiting for direction, glanced up at the racket as the big Twi-Lek roared in fury three steps behind Luke. Barefoot and with the shirt bundled in his hand, Luke grabbed for the newel-post to drag him round the corner of the stairwell, and headed up four steps at a time.

The locked roof entrance burst back under a Force-blow, and he jumped as it let out a shrill alarm tone, lighting with a flashing blue strobe. Past it in a second and cursing that the troopers below now knew exactly where he'd exited, he ran across the rooftop, giving up trying to navigate between the jumble of air exchanges and coolant exhausts, and stepping up to jump from unit to unit, their heat stinging his bare feet. He was across the roof in seconds, and paused at the building's edge to orient himself. No point in just running, when he had to get to the spaceport.

For a second he sensed it again; that brief flutter of familiarity—another force user. This time, an edge of wary confusion came with it which made him pause. Holding still, balanced precariously on the loosely lagged pipe of an air exchange unit, he reached out mentally…

and nearly fell, windmilling his arms wildly and dragging the Force back in about himself to regain balance.

"Leia?!"

Then the roof door wrenched open once more, and the shooting started.

.

.

.

Leia pulled back into the eaterie door, watching as another eight stormtroopers jogged past, blasters held to their chests, their sense in the Force loaded with purpose.

Behind her, Han glanced to his fresh cadda pitta with a sense of deep annoyance. "This'd better not be for us. What the hell are local enforcement doing lettin' the Empire have free run just 'cos they've got one damn Star Destroyer in orbit?"

"It's not us," Leia murmured. "But I'd sure as hell like to know what a Star Destroyer is doing orbiting Rishi."

They'd traveled here in one of the _Pride's_ stock of heavy support craft and taken a smaller shuttle down to the surface, whilst the _Pride_ itself had used the time to run battle simulations beyond deep orbit with her still-raw crew. After the fiasco of the failed defection, it had been painfully apparent that they needed the practice.

They'd had just two days before they had to rejoin the fleet, and travelling down to Rishi for a street-level scout around Luke's last location had turned up absolutely zero. But before they called it a day and headed back to the _Pride_ , Leia had decided to drop by the freighter that they knew her brother had secreted away here in deep storage, just one last time.

That was when the call had come in that an Imperial Star Destroyer had just made orbit.

Still eyeing the mayhem, Han held onto his pitta protectively. "Took the words right outta my mouth, sweetheart. But I'd like to add that I want to work that out from the safety of the _Pride_."

They were stood in the entrance to _Veet Vittles,_ just two streets from the town's main spaceport entrance, which contrary to all visual indications claimed to offer _Great Food for Busy Pilots_. They'd been there for half an hour now, hoping that maybe things might calm down sufficiently that they could just casually stroll back to their own shuttle, legitimately landed in a bay there.

It wasn't looking good.

But taking into account the fact that they were in what was generally considered Rebel-held territory on a planet that was, if not a member of the Alliance, then at least reliably neutral, it wasn't looking that worrying, either…for them. Someone somewhere, Leia reflected, was having a hell of a bad day.

"Maybe we can—" The brief contact came as an incandescent flare of intense power, turning her head and making her draw a shocked breath in. "Luke!"

Han turned from his wary observation of the street. "What?"

Leia grabbed his arm as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. "Luke—it's Luke! Here. Right now."

"Now? In the Star Destroyer? He's in command?"

"No, he's on Rishi, nearby. Running. Han, he's running!"

He wasn't with them; Luke wasn't with the Empire.

Was that what it had been months ago, over Rhen Var? She'd sensed his presence for the briefest of moments when the Imperial Star Destroyer there had attacked the _Pride_ , and…had she simply assumed that he was in charge? It had been so short, the split second of contact—had she been wrong? Could he have actually been a prisoner onboard, not a collaborator?

"Running…from the Imps?" Han was working it out verbally at the same time as his mind raced to connect the dots. "…so this is all for him?" For a brief second he grinned, and she felt his relief mirror her own in a heady flush of excitement. But he was still Han, so he tilted his head, voice taking on that familiar laconic edge. "Well that's just great; first time in a year that the stormtroopers weren't chasing _me_ , and now I gotta go run into their sights anyway."

Leia closed her eyes, reaching out to make contact…but the fleeting thread of connection had slammed shut already, leaving her grasping blindly in the void.

….

"Wait—wait, he's on the move again!" Leia slowed, her eyes losing focus as greater senses than sight and sound homed in.

"He's gotta be heading for the spaceport," Han said, breathless from running through the maze of backstreets. "He's got the light freighter in storage there—presumably that's what he came back for."

"He could have another way out—he had another way down."

"You're assuming he hasn't been here for weeks," Han said in a dry drawl. "It'd be just like him to do that. Plus the biggest concentration of troopers, and so the most possible trouble, is at the spaceport. He tends to be in the middle of that, no matter what planet he's on."

"Back!" Leia said suddenly, wheeling about as she caught another brief flash of awareness. "Back that way!"

Blaster shots echoed down from above in concentrated volleys, difficult to home in on as their echo reverberated between the tall, narrow streets. For a second Leia slowed, trying to track them as Han passed her.

 _So close…_

Her eyes lifted up to the rooftops, which Luke had briefly seemed to be using to cover distances at speed, though he'd likely been forced back down to ground level to avoid the two drones she'd seen circling.

With a grunt Han came to a sudden stop at the corner ahead, as someone coming from the opposite direction took it at sufficient speed to practically barrel into him. The slight, black-haired youth skipped nimbly to the side, his unfastened, short-sleeved shirt whipped up by the motion as its wearer took the opportunity of his own momentum to shoulder into Han and knock him off-balance without even slowing. Staggering, Han managed to grab for the stranger's shirt-tail, so that the youth was two steps clear before the grip on his shirt yanked him bodily about, almost dropping him, though he somehow stayed upright—and Leia gasped, wide eyed.

"Luke?!"

"Leia!" Luke's arm, half-raised for a blow at his unknown assailant, dropped as he turned, then looked quickly back to realize who he has about to roundhouse.

Han had already dropped Luke's open shirt to stare, slack-jawed.

Luke backstepped quickly, then gathered himself a little and turned about to walk to Leia as Han straightened behind him. Breathing heavily, dark hair wild and wearing an open, brightly patterned short-sleeved shirt with half-fastened combat pants that were baggy enough to drop to his hips, a smooth silver saber hilt visible in a side pocket, he looked crumpled and distracted yet oddly composed, despite everything to the contrary. "Still offering that asylum thing?"

She stared. "…what?"

"Asylum, still offering that asylum thing. That was the offer Han negotiated before Corsin, right?"

She blinked, unable to believe that she was looking at her brother again—actually speaking to the brother she'd thought dead, then trailed halfway across the galaxy in every spare moment for the last year, trying to track down…. Because this didn't come close to _any_ of the versions of this moment that had run through her head. "I—I guess, yes, bu—"

"Excellent, I'll take it." Shouldering his unfastened shirt back on, he took her hand and shook it rapidly, glancing back over his shoulder.

Coming up behind him, Han found his voice. "Wait a minute, what have you done this time?"

Luke barely flicked his eyes sideways. "Thanks for the warm welcome, I'm touched." His attention was instantly back to Leia. "Oh, one thing I should mention—there are at least six units of pretty whipped-up stormtroopers about two minutes behind me…which means they should arrive any moment now."

Leia glanced back, reaching out with the Force to pin down the threat as he answered the question she hadn't yet voiced. "Nope, no point in hiding. I'm starting to think Brie must have injected a subcutaneous tracker chip at some point months ago. Maybe when they first caught me." He glanced down at his own turquoise and midnight blue shirt, baggy, half-open cargo pants and bare feet, and Leia couldn't help but do the same as he continued. "I swapped clothes, but they're still right on my heels, so it wasn't in them. I can't find any small cuts anywhere, but they picked me up a while ago and I haven't exactly had a lot of time in front of a mirror to check. You don't…have any troops here, do you?"

"… We have a light assault ship in orbit, fully manned."

"That's great. Really." Luke's head tipped in that sardonic motion that Leia remembered so well from Coruscant. "Not much actual use up there though, are they?"

Han straightened. "Well maybe if you'd told us you were bringing your friends along…"

"If I'd've been that organized they wouldn't be tailing me," Luke countered, glancing about without looking to him. "We need to get airborne."

.

.

"Aah!"

Three steps ahead of Leia, Luke's full-tilt run broke into a staggered hop as something caught his bare foot, and he slowed to a brief, hopping halt to rub at his sole, muttering to himself as Leia stared again at his unruly black hair and the dark, sizeable tattoo visible on his chest beneath his still-open shirt whose tie-dye design ranged from lucent turquoise to midnight blue. The baggy, sand-colored cargo trousers, though fastened now, still dropped to hang low on his hips and crumple at his ankles. The last time she'd seen him on Coruscant he'd worn a hand-tailored jacket that had probably cost six months of an average man's salary. Now he looked like a street urchin, rake-thin and pale, with gaunt cheeks beneath that muss of wild, dark-dyed hair. The whole scene still had a vaguely dreamlike quality to her, oddly surreal.

As she was staring, she realized that Luke was speaking to her, glancing around to reorient himself.

"….to the spaceport," he finished, glancing to Leia.

"Uhhh…south, I think," Leia said. "That'll bring us in at an angle, rather than through the main entrances—they have troops there. Are they all here for you?"

"Yeah. I'm guessing they'll be pretty much…" Luke paused to glare at Han, who'd slowed to stand a half-step to his side, openly staring. "What?!"

" 'The hell happened to your hair, kid?"

"I dyed it."

Luke leaned back, his patently ill will a wall between them which Han ignored entirely as he squinted closer. "You dye your _eyes_ , too?"

"It's called a disguise," Luke drawled coolly.

Han straightened a fraction, eyes flicking to the street and the implied stormtroopers beyond. "Didn't work very well, did it?"

" _You_ didn't find me."

Leia lifted her voice a notch before it broke into an argument. "Could we get back to the point—stormtroopers; in pursuit. Getting out of here."

"If we get up to the assault ship we'll be safe enough," Han said.

"Wait, assault ship?" Luke repeated, as if finally realizing. "What happened to the _Relentless_?"

"She's nearby."

"Nearby _where,_ exactly?"

"She's probably in-system by now. Maybe on the far side of Rishi."

Luke took a half-step back from Han, frustration rising. "Again, not much actual use out there, is she?"

Han stared shrewdly, knowing better than Leia how Luke's mind worked. "Just how much _use_ does she need to be?"

"Aren't you in contact with your assault ship?"

"We know there's an Imperial Star Destroyer in orbit. That come for you?"

"Actually it was my ride here. It didn't want to be."

"We can get the _Relent_ —the _Kathol's Pride_ here in under twenty minutes," Han calculated, correcting his inadvertent slip in calling the stolen destroyer by its Imperial designation. "Plus we've got other backup just out of system. They'll likely be on their way here, too."

"Actually, all things considered, I probably wouldn't call them in."

"You want help, or not? We're not putting an assault ship up against an Imperial Star Destroyer when we have our own Star Destroyer in deep orbit."

"I think there may be another Destroyer following me. If so, it could emerge from hyperspace any time now."

"Well then we definitely need the back-up."

Even Luke glanced down, a shade of apology in his voice. "It's the _Executor_."

There was a moment of silence as they took that in. It was Han who broke it; he always had an answer, and it was generally dry and to the point.

"…Right," he said. "Thanks for that."

Leia's mind was already racing ahead to greater issues. "You've seen the _Executor_ in service?! Whose flag is she flying under? How big is her fleet? Is she fully—"

Two troopers rounded the corner behind them and opened fire without hesitation, making them all flinch. Leia spun about, hand going to the hip to pull her saber free—and heard the low growl of a second lightsaber as a flash of amber red blazed to the edge of her vision. The next shot sailed past her unnoticed as she looked to her brother, stood a single step away, saber lit…pointed not at her, in anger, but at a common foe.

Then the moment cut back in about her, and she was aware of Han yelling as he grabbed at her arm, pulling her back into a side street. For a brief moment she felt a flare in the Force, intense and vicious, finely focused—and the two troopers to the far end of the street were thrown backwards in a tangle of limbs, one to impact against the plasteel panels of a high-sided speeder, the other glancing across it with a scrape of armor and tumbling onwards until he hit the wall behind. Neither moved.

Luke waited, eyes on the far side of the street, head tilted just slightly as the hand holding his saber hilt dropped to his side, shoulders relaxed as the blade doused…

A second set of two troopers tried to get an angle of fire by taking the far side of the corner, one low, the other high. Three shots came in on perfect alignment—

His free hand snapped up, batting the laser bolts from the air to explode in bright blasts against the nearby wall. With a yell he refocused his attention on the stormtroopers—and they dropped. They dropped where they crouched, limbs loose. No sound, no theatrics…they were simply dead. She could sense it quite distinctly; their brief flash of shock truncated instantly by the enfolding Darkness which had closed abruptly about them, making her flinch.

She stared, trying to comprehend what she was seeing. Her brother—her brother the Sith, raised by a Sith Master whose will and Empire he'd spent his entire life to date dedicated to upholding—turning on stormtroopers without a second's hesitation, it seemed.

Because he was no longer serving a dead tyrant's Empire? Or simply because anything which stood in a Sith's way was to be removed without a second's hesitation?

Already turning away, he paused as their eyes met for a second…

Then glanced down with a brief, uneasy scowl, jaw grinding as he set forward. "We need to get out of here before they pin me with the trackers again."

She turned, moving on autopilot as she picked up pace, eyes on her brother's back.

It all felt, quite suddenly, _very_ real.

.

Having lost their pursuers for a brief moment they slowed to a brisk trying- _so_ -hard-to-be-casual walk as they circumnavigated the edge of the landing platforms, whose high, smooth security walls stretched perhaps three stories. Luke walked wider than the others, eyeing the sheer surface, then the surrounding street.

"I can make that, at a push. A parked speeder close to the wall would help, though." He glanced expectantly at Leia.

She couldn't make that. She was athletic and dexterous with fine Force control…but she couldn't make that jump.

Not that she was about to tell him that. Instead, she winked. "You really like to do everything the hard way, don't you. Han?"

He was already pulling the comlink from his belt. "Chewie, you at the door?"

Just ahead, at the point that the wall curved from view, an unmarked emergency exit door serving the hangar complex loosed a brief flash of sparks, then was forced open in increments from the inside, grinding its objection. A huge, hirsute head leaned around its edge and let out an extended howl which ended in a brief, toothy grin.

Luke lifted one hand to point casually as he neared. "You're the Wookiee from before."

Chewie stepped back slightly in invitation, still holding the door open with one brawny arm…and as Luke made to pass beneath him and enter the docking bay, Chewie reached out one massive hand to ruffle Luke's hair—

Han lifted a hand and let out a brief shout of warning as Leia froze, fearing a reaction. As it was, Luke simply ducked beneath the Wookiee's outstretched arm, bracing as any boy might when accosted by an over-friendly uncle.

She and Han were left to glance to each other in wired relief as Chewie looked quizzically between them with a brief, questioning grunt.

Chewie growled in reply to Han as he entered ahead of Leia, confirming that their shuttle was already warmed up and waiting to fly. Luke slowed as he neared it, allowing Leia to pass him, her breath short as she spoke. "Come on, let's get out of here before they figure out that the emergency exit was blown."

"You go," he said evenly. "I have my own ship. I'll meet you in orbit."

Han stopped dead in front of her. "Seriously? You _seriously_ think we're gonna fall for that?"

Luke's gaze didn't go to Han, remaining instead on Leia. "I came to Rishi for my ship. I'm flying it out of here."

"You can come back for it," Leia reasoned.

"I'm here right now, and so's my ship," Luke said, unmoved. "Why should I come back? You board your shuttle and give me a few minutes to get airborne. I'm guessing they've grounded all air traffic, so they'll react when I lift off. Give them a minute to zero in on me, then you can lift off and get back to your gunboat safely."

"Makes sense," Han looked quickly to Leia. "You take the shuttle back up to the gunboat, I'll go with the k—with Luke."

Leia barely glanced to him as she tilted her head back to Luke, hand resting on her hip, voice a low warning. "Ohh, you'd better not be treating me like some damsel in distress, Luke Antilles. Let's take a closer look at just who's pulling _whose_ fat out of the fire, here."

"Please," he dismissed dryly. "If this all goes belly-up—which it just might since you elected to leave all your damn troops in orbit and your entire Star Destroyer somewhere else entirely—I don't want to be caught in the company of a Rebel Jedi, that's all."

Her eyes skipped to Han, who took a step back, hands up.

"Hey, I'm just figurin' it took us a year to find him _this_ time. If he breaks orbit and one of us isn't in the actual ship with him, it'll be another year before we see him again, trust me."

"Thanks," Luke ground.

Han glanced back to him, unmoved. "Tell me I'm lying?"

"Fine," Leia growled, turning. "Chewie, you fly the shuttle back. All three of us will go on the freighter."

"I just said I'll meet you in orbit," Luke held.

"Yeah, you didn't specify what you'd do after that," Han added. "I'm gettin' the feeling it may have something to do with a fast goodbye and a hyperspace jump."

Luke turned, a reply already on his lips, as Leia strode resolutely past him. "We need to move. If you're being tracked as you say, we don't want to lead them to our shuttle as well as your freighter."

Luke stared at her as she passed, then glanced to Han, who grinned. "Well, well. Luke Antilles, meet someone who's finally as hard-headed full-on willful as you are…your sister. Welcome to my side of most arguments with _you_."

Luke lifted an eyebrow as he turned to follow her, fishing the freighter's access chipcard from his pocket. "I don't know what you're grinning about. Now you've got two of us to contend with."

.

.

.

They were at a full run by the time they made it into the deep storage bay that held Luke's freighter. By this point, as he'd expected, the troopers had regrouped enough to start tracking him again, forcing a running firefight for the last few turns. He could have just stopped dead and dealt with them all, Luke knew—there were no more than a dozen or so—but the memory of Leia's shocked eyes on him earlier when he'd done just that had been an uncomfortable reminder of just what he was actually doing.

Instead he fumbled the _Falcon's_ keycard over as he closed, pressing his thumb to the etched metal over a portion its surface as he breathed a near-silent 'C'mon…'

The freighter's ramp dropped at a stately pace as all three of them piled up and inside, the first blaster bolts from the stormtroopers splashing off the pneumatic rams of her ramp as it still lowered slowly, unheeding of the threat.

Hauling himself to a halt by grabbing at the padded wall just inside the ramp, Luke glanced about the unfamiliar ship. "Raise—can you see the ramp raise?!"

Leia had paused at the top of the ramp to deflect an incoming bolt with her lightsaber as he slapped at anything which looked remotely like an airlock control panel—and finally the ramp juddered to a halt then reversed to lift, closing with an asthmatic whine.

The metallic spang of too many blaster bolts against the hull of his freighter kept Luke moving. He glanced to Leia. "You know how to operate a quad gun?"

She turned, already heading for the central access column and shouting behind her as she ran. "Kick us up, I'll take the top gun—route me some power up there!"

Luke blinked as he watched her go. It was probably just as well that she seemed to know where she was headed; he didn't.

Han was staring at him, all business. "Where's the cockpit?"

"Uhhh…"

That was all it took. Han's head angled, face dropping into that well-remembered mix of disbelief and wry resignation. "Tell me this is your freighter."

"It's my freighter," Luke said, offended. "I've just…never been inside it before."

Another volley of shots hit the _Falcon's_ hull, making Luke wince. Han turned, striding forward down the loop corridor that presumably led to the cockpit and glancing disparagingly at the torn and apparently fire-scorched impact cushions which lined it, muttering something unheard under his breath.

"Hey," Luke shouted hotly. "Hey—it flies!"

Another volley hit the hull, and he set after Han at full-tilt, ignoring the fact that he had no idea if that was true or not.

They reached the cockpit together—and collided as both men made to take the pilot's seat.

"Out!" Luke said, pulling at the dark blue vest Han wore. "Get out of the damn way!"

"You get out of the way!" Han clung to the console as he spoke, trying to push across into the seat as Luke pulled him back. "I'm a combat pilot," he argued loudly.

"I know, I did the same course at Carida that you did," Luke growled as they jostled. "In less time."

"When'd'you last fly?" Han argued.

"It's _my_ ship!" Luke managed to gain the seat as he spoke by leaning over the chair arm and dropping sideways into it, jostling Han's legs to get his own past and under the console.

Han grumbled under his breath as he took the co-pilot's seat…then both men fell silent as they stared at the cockpit-wide console.

It was a _big_ console.

"Well go on then," Han said without looking away from the sea of controls. "You got the pilot's seat…start her up."

Luke stared a few seconds more. There were certain easily recognizable controls that every ship had in common, of course, and a good few more that any experienced pilot could make an educated guess at…but this was a wide console and nothing was marked. He'd been taught to fly pretty much any size of ship in preparation for becoming an Emperor's Hand, and given half an hour, he was pretty sure he could master this one—but under pressure, he wasn't above taking advice. "You know how to fly this thing?"

"Nope, don't you?"

"I told you, this is the first time I've been inside it."

"Excellent," Han intoned.

"You're Corellian," Luke tried, knowing that the YT series freighters were produced there.

"So's sourmash brandy, but I don't know how to make that, either," Han dismissed, eyes still on the board.

Luke leaned forward. "Well that's the sequential startup."

"I can see that."

Luke hesitated, then pressed the startup. A series of other controls on the console lit up, giving a good indicator of where he should be looking… When nothing more happened, he risked pulling the two main sliders towards him…and with a growl of raw power the freighter rocked slightly on her landing struts, making both men brace.

"Uhhh…repulsors?" Luke asked apprehensively.

Han reached forward. "That's engines."

"That's thrust, I think."

"Yeah, for the engines."

"I kinda need repulsors first," Luke said dryly, eyes still skimming the console. "I didn't intend dragging her out of the bay and across town on her landing struts."

"Well then you shoulda' said that," Han growled. "That's repulsors, there."

"Is it? You're sure?"

" 'Course I'm sure." Han reached confidently forward to push two big sliders away from him, and the freighter lifted rear-end first to skeeter forward practically on her nose, her angle throwing both men onto the forward edge of the console as they grabbed for anything to stop themselves, and a small cloud of loose bits and pieces—earphones, mapping plates, stylus, plastic cups—all came barreling forwards across the cockpit to clatter against the back of their heads and gather on the front viewport…closely followed by a second batch which had taken longer to arrive, by way of the loop corridor leading through from the hold.

The ship let out a painful, extended grind of outer hull plates against the unremitting surface of the bay as she dragged forward, and Han let out a yell and pulled the right slider back halfway, dropping both the ship and what could only loosely be called her pilots back to a more workable angle.

Leia's voice echoed down the corridor from the gunnery tube. "Is someone flying this thing or not?!"

Luke turned to throw Han a hard look but he shrugged, unfazed. "Okay, rear repulsors are a little lively. Remember that."

…

"Shields! Get the shields up!"

It had taken another few probably very costly tries, but the freighter was airborne now…and she flew pretty damn well, it seemed to Luke. She was fast and responsive, shooting up from the landing dish like a missile, once they got her moving.

Which was just as well—the ISD _Steadfast_ had moved her ponderous bulk into a geostationary orbit over their position, and the troop carriers that had followed him down to the surface in the first place were now airborne and homing in on their position. Luke knew this because their first ranging shots had already kicked against the rear of the freighter, making her buck wildly, rather than because they'd picked them up on mid-range scans. Neither he nor Han could yet coax anything more complex than the altimeter from the tactical screens.

Luke's eyes were on the long-range navigational scopes, which had mercifully winked on of their own accord. The Star Destroyer that he'd just put so much effort into leaving was making a concerted effort to retrieve him, skimming as close to the planet's atmosphere as it dared in order to get to his position.

"Which do I do, stay inside the atmosphere so the distance is less to outrun the Destroyer, but we have atmospheric drag—or do I get out of the atmosphere so we can fly faster, but I've wasted time getting into space?"

Han was only half-listening, still trying to decipher his side of the console. "Uuhhh…don't know."

"Don't…? This, from mister _I'm a combat pilot_."

"You need figures for that kinda stuff—speed, relative distance, planetary curvature…"

"Fortunately you're sat at the ship's console!" Luke half-yelled as another range-shot burst brightly to the side of the canopy.

"Hey, I'm still tryin' to get the damn shields up, here. Why is nothing labeled on this console?!"

"Just start pressing things!"

"Wait!"

A shot so powerful that it could only have come from an exo-atmospheric dreadnought seared through the atmosphere a few clicks ahead of them, lighting the cockpit though it was already bright daylight.

"Press faster!" Luke hissed.

"I found navigation!"

"Great. If you could just navigate your way to the damn shields—"

"Got 'em!" Han flicked a series of toggles up, and a small viewscreen to one side lit with streaming data. He stared, voice wavering a fraction. "I _think_ that's shields…"

"It was something power-hungry, 'cos thrust just dropped a notch."

Another burst of incandescent fire lit the sky ahead of them, forcing Luke to twist the stick which slewed the _Falcon_ partway onto her side so that a second scorched past the cockpit in a flare of intense energy. Han grabbed at the console to steady himself.

"You're gonna ask me to tile them all to the upper hull now, aren't you?"

"Yep."

Han's fingers went to tap along his bottom lip as he studied the endless array of flashing lights. "Crap."

They were into the upper atmosphere when the Star Destroyer finally managed to connect, somewhere within a hail of simultaneous artillery. The dimming sky ahead of them bloomed into a dense forest of delayed-surge bursts designed to act like flack, someone onboard the Destroyer having apparently decided that it they couldn't connect with the ship in a fair fight then they'd light the whole damn section up and leave it to the law of averages. For a few seconds the freighter danced like a firefly, skipping between the blossoming bursts, but as more and more flack was rained down, the gaps between became simply too small to navigate—

The glancing pulse hit the shields somewhere topside, its impact batting the _Falcon_ down and hurling her to the side in the same moment, wrenching the helm stick from Luke's hands and briefly throwing the assorted detritus that had landed in the cockpit earlier up and across their field of vision. With helm lost for a second another burst hit, this one aft, with more force. It was a warning—a fraction of the power that the Star Destroyer could dole out in a single pulse—but it lit the thinning air sun-bright and doused the _Falcon's_ main systems entirely for a heart-stopping second—

Then she rallied, catching herself with a whine of engine power as helm came online and Luke hauled her onto her side, slipping between the last of the last of the flack and batting forward in a helix-twist as Han grabbed for the comm.

"Leia, you okay?"

Leia's reply came mercifully quickly. "I'm fine, just little flash-blind. It hit behind me."

As she spoke Luke felt the first uneven judder of the pilot's stick, followed by a brief flicker of zero resistance as it fell loose.

"Something's wrong," he said quickly.

Han froze, staring… The freighter made a huge, back-heavy jolt—then alarms blared as its status board lit up like a carnival.

"Something's _very_ wrong," Luke amended tightly, leaning towards the comm. "Leia, where did we take the hit?"

"You don't know?"

"We're kinda still working out a few things in—"

The ship lurched again, dropping another few clicks in height.

"Never mind," Leia said grimly. "The hit was aft…hold on."

There was a distant whir of pneumatics as the gun turret turned. "You're leaking something—trailing vapor from somewhere near the farthest starboard heat exhaust port. The hit must have punched through the shields."

Han had already turned back to the console with fresh attentiveness.

"Status, status…" he murmured.

"It's coolant," Luke said quickly, eyes on his own range of scopes. "The whole system's running hotter already."

"Okay, we should have back-ups," Han reassured. "I can switch over and seal out the primary system, but not from here. We're not leaking internally or we'd be dead from fumes by now. We just have to—"

As he spoke a claxon common to all space-faring ships blared, making both men jump.

"Fire!" Leia shouted over the comm. "I see fire—you have flames at the damaged heat exhaust port."

This time the stick nearly jerked free of Luke's hands as the ship bucked wildly.

"What the hell's on fire?!" Han yelled, spinning his chair and lurching up.

"Wait," Luke shouted. "Take the stick. I'll go."

Han hesitated, but Luke was already rising as he spoke. "You know the Ops system."

"I _really_ don't!"

"You know it better than I do. Get the shields back online and head ex-atmospheric. It'll suffocate any external flames and we can make lightspeed. I'll go get the auxiliary coolant online and deal with any internal fire, or we're gonna fall out of the air."

They were already trading places, Han shimmying past Luke, fingers running over the console before him. Halfway down the cockpit corridor, Luke heard his shout. "Luke—get a breath mask! And touch the doors before you open 'em—see if they're hot."

.

Dark black electrical smoke roiled down the main loop corridor at ceiling height as he ran aft, heading for what he hoped was the engine room beneath the damaged heat exhaust port; the fire had penetrated internally, then. It wasn't hard to find; the door had a flashing red light above it, strobing in the smoke-darkened corridor. Backtracking, Luke found an extinguisher strapped to the wall—never try to find one in the room itself—then returned, pausing to rest his shoulder against the door to test it's heat; too great, and the fire would be too big to control. It was barely warm, so he hit the panel with his elbow, took a last deep breath, and stepped into bedlam.

Completely blind in the darkened room, he had a vague sense of where the fire was from its bright heart, which blazed visibly through the thick black smoke in practically the far corner of the engine room. Pointing the extinguisher, he loosed the full powder charge, feeling the propellant blow back into his face, freezing cold.

Long seconds ticked, in which the claxon noise and choking smoke held sway…but the fire didn't re-ignite, and since he hadn't already fallen flat on his face from the fumes, Luke risked opening the engine room door again to vent some of the smoke. At the same time, the emergency lights in the corridor finally sparked into being, lighting the wide, curve-walled engineering chamber through the open door.

He had no idea what it normally looked like in here, of course…but it looked all-hells bad right now. Huge rifts of half-burned insulation were visible as the smoke thinned, hanging in molten strings from between the heat-buckled ceiling plates, and strewn in charred heaps across the blackened floor. Finer strings spread like black cobwebs over every soot-covered surface. A massive inward buckle of bowed pipes and displaced wiring marked where the grated disc of one of the six external heat exhaust ports had been hit, but amazingly, the actual instruments about it still seemed operative. A few fritzed and sparked nearest to what had obviously been the center of the fire beneath it, but other than that their status lights blinked steadily through the smoke. Luke dropped the extinguisher and set forward, coughing in the sooty air.

The coolant system wasn't hard to identify, a little off to the far side of the center of the damage. He reached for the shunt lever which would cut in auxiliary—and pulled quickly back, cursing. Idiot! His left palm throbbed from the burn, where the metal had been heated by the flames. Dragging the edge of his part-fastened shirt up, he wrapped it around his hand to try again—and froze as the protracted, grinding groan of heated metal twisting against metal grated within the decimated roof cavity above him. Luke held still, struggling to stay upright as the freighter still juddered, and listening as the tortured whine faded…then he wrapped his shirt tighter and grabbed for the shunt lever which, still heated through the cloth, made his fresh burn pulse. It pushed partway, then jammed.

"Come _on!"_ He angled his body as he yelled, getting the strength of his shoulder into play, aware that every mechanical system on the ship would be running critical by now.

Leaning his arm to the red hot metal of the panel he jarred the lever forwards, aware of the Force gathering as he used more than physical pressure to drive the unwilling lever home—

It gave suddenly, lighting the auxiliary panel and dousing the damaged primary. There was a brief rush of gas through pipes, making them twitch at the pressure change; a tingle at the edge of his senses which flared to a warning.

With a voluble hiss the armored coolant pipe set into the fire and blast-damaged roof space above ruptured, spewing korfaise coolant gas into the engine room. Instantly the door rammed shut to contain the toxic gas, slamming the room into darkness as corrosive white vapor churned through the sooty smoke, displacing it at ceiling level then spreading outwards to begin to drop at the room's edges as it met cooler air.

For a brief second the logical part of Luke's brain took over and he dropped to the deck where the concentration was thinnest, calling instantly on the Force to close down his lungs as he crawled for the door ten steps away, eyes closed. But korfaise was transdermal; it could enter the body through any exposed membrane; skin, eyes or throat. Three half-dragged pulls on his elbows and knees, and Luke's lungs and closed eyes were burning anyway, skin on fire. Four, and he couldn't have taken a breath if he'd been stupid enough to try. Five, and he wanted to rip his own face off.

Six, and everything was spinning…

Seven…

.

.

.

.

.


	18. Chapter 18

.

.

 **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

.

.

.

Leia leaned over Luke where he was laid on his side on the engine room deck plates—they hadn't dared to move him—her heart pounding fast. His blistered skin ruptured and bled where she gently pressed the oxygen mask to his mouth, its interior already speckled by deep scarlet blood. Unconscious, he launched into another bout of choked coughing, and she pulled the mask quickly away before it filled with blood brought up from his lungs by the corrosive korfaise gas.

Han crouched a half step away now that the freighter had come out of its brief lightspeed hop and was being pulled into _Home One_ by tractor beam, speaking quickly into his handheld comlink.

"…repeat, we have a medical emergency here. We have a man down with korfaise inhalation, displaying full signs. Unconscious but alive."

They'd bypassed the _Kathol's Pride_ entirely and made straight for _Home One_ , the second ship in system, onboard which Leia knew there was a pulmonary specialist. Preprogrammed medi-droids were always reliable, but they went by the book, whereas a sentient medic would adapt more readily to the unique situation of a Force-sensitive.

"Hold on," a reassuringly calm voice came back over Han's comlink. "I'll transfer the line to medical to speak to someone. You're about two minutes from docking. We'll have a full trauma team waiting in the docking bay."

It wasn't an overreaction. Korfaise gas was lethal in relatively small amounts; that was why the pipes were always double-armored and set in the cavity between any ship's internal and external hulls. The damage from the Star Destroyer's direct hit combined with the engine room fire must have bared them to the freighter's interior compartments and stressed them sufficiently that under the sudden strain of closing down the primary system and pressurizing the secondary, they'd failed.

She'd sensed Luke's brief flash of shock in the same moment that the Force had blared its own warning, followed by the massive surge as he'd called it to him for protection—all a split-second before the freighter's internal systems had rung out the alarm and sealed the engine room.

Abandoning the quad-gun she'd run full-tilt aft, knowing where he was and sensing his failing awareness. It had taken valuable seconds to vent the room as the freighter had finally cleared Rhen Var's atmosphere and launched into lightspeed, in which the knife-edge desire to simply yank the auto-locked door from its housing had screamed. She'd grabbed a full-face breath mask and wrenched it open as the concentration had lessened, feeling the gas prickle on the skin of her neck and hands when she'd finally gained access, as weak as it was.

By the time Han had arrived the air system had cleared it, and she'd turned once to yell, "Coolant gas!"

He'd barely stopped, cursing as he turned about in search of medical equipment, already pulling his comlink free.

.

.

.

.

.

Eosi, the Mon Cal chief medic onboard _Home One_ , walked from the small high-dependency treatment room to where Leia stood waiting, with Han and Mon Mothma. Age had made the dark pigment of her variegated, poreless skin fade, but her bulbous round eyes were bright and sharp. She met Mon's gaze first of course—Mon was the senior official here, and since Luke hadn't been identified, that placed her as the one in charge of his treatment.

Eosi tilted her smooth-skinned head. "Well, we've stabilized airway management, externalized pulmonary perfusion and administered neuromuscular blockers to stop all lung reflex. It's the only way to relieve the haemoptysis, which is caused by the corrosive gas and the paroxysmal cough reflex. Korfaise is sufficiently corrosive to strip and rupture the lining of the lungs, even in small amounts."

Her sharp eyes swiveled independently to Leia. "If he was exposed to the irritant for as long as you've said, he should be dead already. He shouldn't have made it off the freighter, let alone into my medicenter."

Leia glanced down. A brief, hastily whispered discussion with Mon in the corridor outside when Luke had first been brought to the medicenter had clarified that the decision had been made not to disseminate Luke's identity, and the fact that the Alliance's base-ship, _Home One_ , now had a Sith onboard.

With no explanation forthcoming, the Mon Cal medic let out a brief sigh, then glanced back to her patient. "As it is, all we can do is treat him as if he somehow had minimal inhalation despite that, and adapt recognized procedures to allow for the discrepancy. I'm going to keep him intubated and on full life support until the neuromuscular suppressant is stopped, to maintain positive airway pressure, and we'll fit a pulmonary shunt. We'll try a slow withdrawal of support in a few days time and monitor lung reflex and perfusion closely, with oxygen augmentation as needed. That's generally indicated for anyone who's made it past the critical time interval with korfaise poisoning. For now, we'll give him a few hours to stabilize then we'll clean him up."

He still laid on medical sheets seeped in his own blood, brought up from his lungs in terrifying and escalating spasms as the medics had boarded the freighter with boxes of equipment and a full-stasis gurney in tow, and Han yelling at them the whole time.

Now he lay so very still, eyes swollen closed, his shirt long gone and his pale skin marred by merging masses of bright red welts where the gas had burned it. A medical droid remained in the room, still attending to the application of bacta patches.

Beside Leia, Mon kept her voice subdued. "His chances?"

Eosi dipped her head again, though her protruding eyes remained on Mon. "He has corrosive damage to all unprotected membranes, consistent with korfaise gas poisoning, though the extent of lung damage seems incompatible with the exposure time."

"Inconsistent?"

Eosi rolled her eyes in a Mon Cal gesture of uncertainty. "As I said earlier, he shouldn't have made it out of the freighter, let alone into my medicenter. The amount of dermal and ocular damage is consistent with toxic exposure levels."

It was Han who stepped in with a sufficiently logical explanation. "I told him to take an oxygen mask with him—we knew we had a fire."

"That would answer a lot. He may have brought it to his face when the korfaise was released, but korfaise penetrates any membrane, including absorption through skin pores. The lung damage would have occurred at a slower rate than dermal. That might have given him several seconds of lucidity in which he'd be able to hold the mask to his face to protect his lungs, but when he was incapacitated and no longer able to hold the mask, it would have fallen away. It will likely be in the room somewhere, if you look." Eosi pressed her wide, lipless mouth tighter with a brief nod, seeming content with the theory. "In order to ensure the injuries are survivable, our main priority is to avoid pulmonary edema due to damaged alveoli in the lungs. Once we have airway management under control and the vital functions which are presently mechanically supported stabilize, we'll treat remedial and possible long-term damage. As a secondary concern, he has corrosive damage to the lenses of both eyes. I think the right lens will clear naturally, but the left may need replacement. With your permission, we'll take cultures to start a lab-grown specimen."

"Of course," Mon nodded immediately.

Han straightened. "Wait a minute, long term damage?"

The medic turned, her deep voice and the confident knowledge it implied comforting, though her words were anything but. "Korfaise is a class three gas which travels into the alveoli in the lungs and blocks them almost immediately, but not before sufficient has been transferred around the body to change electrolyte and white cell counts, causing system-wide damage. There's no antitoxin, we simply have to react to the ongoing symptoms as they occur. Proactively, we can take over oxygen perfusion as well as kidney and liver function in the short-term, to ease pressure on the system. The neuromuscular suppressants will give us a chance to drain and treat his lungs, and intubation will allow us to get a little oxygen in there under slight pressure, to enable the alveoli to open and repair without scarring, but we can do that for two days at the most. We'll have to keep him unconscious whilst we do so, of course. After that, we need to get his lungs working again. Fortunately he's received full medical intervention very quickly, but he already had lung damage from…" The Mon-Cal paused a second, as if uncertain whether to continue, her huge eyes rolling towards Mon for guidance.

Mon nodded, and with a tilt of her mottle-skinned head, the Eosi continued.

"Well, I can tell you that he habitually uses spice, and has done so long term, based on initial follicle analysis. It also came up in the blood perfusion tests. We needed to follow it up to see how much was in his system to aid our own drug administration. Judging from the amount of pre-existing damage to the membrane of the lungs, his preferred method was apparently inhalation, and that's predisposed him towards greater damage from the korfaise gas." She paused, turning back to her unconscious patient, her words aimed at Mon Mothma. "I can also tell you that neither his eyes nor his hair color are genuine. I can administer something to counteract the hair pigment change when his general condition improves, but the eyes are better left to clear naturally, particularly given their present condition."

"But his eyes will heal," Han pushed.

The medic nodded. "With medical intervention, yes. Our main concern is for his pulmonary system—his lungs. At the moment scans are still showing irregular alveolar infiltrates typically associated with noncardiogenic edema like korfaise, and until that's stabilized we can't move forward. His electrolytes are also severely decreased, but we're stabilizing that now. We'll keep monitoring his bloods and watch for C-reactive proteins and BNP, and…" She lifted her hands, palms out, elongated, webbed fingers spreading in a universal gesture of helplessness. "…we keep on monitoring. Stay proactive, not reactive."

"So he'll survive?" It was the first time Leia had spoken, and even now she couldn't take her eyes from her brother to do so.

The Mon-Cal, too, turned to her patient. "He's not in great condition physically—you can see that—but he's young and despite the levels of exposure that dermal damage indicates, his lung damage appears to be within proscribed recoverable limits. I think with medical support he'll recover. Normally bacta immersion would be indicated for the dermal burns, but the fluid in his lungs precludes immersion treatment, either respiratory or non-respiratory, due to pressure and possible oxygen-system pneumonia. But we can treat his dermal burns with surface bacta, and provide pharmaceutical and mechanical support for pulmonary recovery."

Again the medic paused to glance to Mon Mothma, thoughtful. "It looks from initial tests like the last few months notwithstanding, he's been running on empty for a while now. He's habitually malnourished, and has large amounts of co-sorin compounds—that's a neurotoxin associated with prolonged spice use—in his system. Large amounts," the Mon-Cal emphasized, as she rolled glassy eyes back towards Leia. "If you'd gone looking for him in another year or so, I doubt you would have found anything but a grave marker. As it is, I think we'll have him out of IC within a few weeks. A week more will get him on his feet, if a little weak. Throughout that time we'll slowly bring down his spice dependency using inactive substitutes. Based on his levels and the fact that his system is already damaged, I don't want to tax it further in this initial stage of pulmonary treatment, so the dependency issue will be a two-month detox, I would imagine. Until we replace the damaged left lens with the new graft he'll have limited vision in that eye, but I'd like to wait a week or so after he's out of intensive care to do so."

"And with the new lens?"

"A good graft will solve the problem entirely—a little longer for the right lens, which we'll leave to clear naturally. Without it, he'll remain vision-impaired. The shortness of breath and low blood-oxygen will have considerable effect for a month, with maybe another after that to fully recover. He won't be running any laps of the ship for a while."

Leia sensed a flash of relief from Mon beside her, and felt a flare of guilt that she had been thinking the same; that the Sith she'd brought into their midst would be hobbled, at least for a while.

A brief change in the assorted pips and tachs of the medical apparatus instantly took the medic's attention. "If you'll excuse me."

She turned and left, re-entering the treatment room.

For a few seconds everyone remained silent, their attention on Luke's unconscious form, before Mon turned to Han, her most diplomatic tone in play. "If I could have a few moments with Leia, Lieutenant Solo…?"

For a second it seemed like Han might argue the point, then he glanced briefly to Leia and nodded. Neither was looking to rock the boat right now—they'd done that enough by bringing Luke here at all.

Mon's gaze returned to the high-dependency room beyond the wide transparisteel window as Han left, letting the door close behind him before she spoke again to Leia, voice grave.

"I admit that when you said that the Force was guiding you in your desire to return to Rishi, this was not the outcome I'd expected."

"Believe me, despite the urge to go there I didn't know myself what would happen. All I knew was that I had to be there." For the first time, she let out a low, cautious sigh of relief. "It wasn't ideal, but at least it's finally done, it's settled. He's here, where he needs to be."

"You want him to remain here?" The shock which leaked through Mon Mothma's always-composed façade was rare enough to remind Leia just what she was proposing.

She turned from her brother to look at Mon. "I know what I'm asking…but Mon, everything we were prepared to offer him asylum for before, is still of value now. We may not need to know the workings of Palpatine's mind any more, but a knowledge of the higher echelons of the Imperial intelligence service would be invaluable. And he knew about the _Executor_ —spoke about it as if he's been inside Ghost Fleet. He'll know whose flag it's under, know the Moffs controlling it, know their strengths and weaknesses."

Mon's eyes turned back to Luke in studied consideration as Leia held silent, aware that Mon was far too shrewd to see only an injured man. Even now, gaunt and quiescent, he looked dangerous.

Mon's brows knitted in concern. "I fear that even for such valuable knowledge, the price may be too high."

"But you were the one who argued with Master Kenobi for…" Leia paused, realizing what had changed. "You think Master Kenobi could have controlled him, but I won't be able to."

Mon was too accomplished a politician to look away when she was called. "I think that you have a different relationship with Luke than Master Kenobi had."

"That doesn't make me blind to what he is, Mon."

"We removed his Master, Leia. It's in his nature to want revenge."

Now, with her immediate fears for Luke easing, Leia remembered anew her brother's presence at the capital-ship battle over Rhen Var—a fact that she'd withheld even from Mon, for fear of condemning her brother. She'd sensed Luke for only a fraction of a second; his flare of shock that Leia was onboard the _Pride_ , nothing more. Knowing Luke's past, she'd assumed that he was in command, but after what had happened and the little he'd said in the running fight on Rishi…

Had he in fact been a prisoner during the Rhen Var battle?

Her thoughts raced, pinning brief snippets of Luke's words before he'd been injured together.

"… _they picked me up a while ago …_  
 _"must have injected a subcutaneous tracker chip at some point …_  
 _"maybe when they first caught me …_  
 _"Could we get back to the point—stormtroopers; in pursuit. Getting out of here."_

And most telling, most shocking of all, Luke turning his lightsaber on Imperial stormtroopers—troopers who were clearly ordered to stop him. He'd said himself in the only message he'd ever sent to Leia almost a year ago that if he'd intended to gain retribution for Palpatine's death, the Alliance would have known already.

"No," Leia shook her head, more sure than ever. "You saw the message he sent me just months after Palpatine's death, he's not looking for revenge."

"What _is_ he looking for," Mon asked—and Leia knew what the unspoken extension of that question was; can we in any way provide it? Because if not, why bring him here?

"The Imperial remnant, whoever they are, were aggressively hunting him on Rishi. From what little he said, I think he'd been held by force. He asked for asylum—he came to us for protection."

"He came _across_ you during his escape," Mon corrected. "A coincidental opportunity that may be as far ahead as he'd thought. Staying here, among us, could well be a step further than he's willing to go. Helping us might be far beyond his intentions."

"But let's give him that opportunity!"

"I will, completely and without prejudice, you know that. But…" Mon paused, choosing her words with care. "Leia, you need to be prepared for the fact that this is not what he wants. And if so, we all need to consider very carefully our response. Right now he may have no intentions, no ambitions…but he's young, and that likely will not last. If we let him walk free and he returns to the Empire—"

"He won't. Han always said that his loyalty was to Palpatine, not the Empire."

"That can change. If the right person finds him, if they find a way to control him…worse, if he actually begins to have ambitions himself… We have to consider our response at this moment with an eye to the future, because we may not get a second opportunity."

"Are you condemning him before he's committed a crime?"

"No, absolutely not," Mon said firmly. "Nor will I allow anyone else to. But we've gained so much in the last year…"

"None of which he's interfered with."

"I understand that."

She was trying so hard, Leia knew. Not even that—it came so naturally to Mon, this innate compassion, this desire to do what was _right_. But this was a Sith they were discussing, and had it been anyone else, Leia would have come firmly down in the same camp, raising the same questions that Mon did now about a man who had the connections, the knowledge and the ability to follow in his Master's footsteps to devastating effect.

But this was her brother, the sole remaining member of her shattered family, torn apart by the power that imbued them all—and she couldn't let him go. Wouldn't, whilst there was even a flicker of hope.

Mon rested her hand to Leia's shoulder, voice apologetic. "This isn't a decision for me, you understand that, don't you? It's too big. It has to be put to the Council."

"Then let me come, let me—"

"No. Leia, all that we discussed before is as important as ever. You cannot allow yourself to be connected to Luke—not now. There's too much to lose." Mon squeezed Leia's shoulder. "You're the last Jedi, Leia. You have a weight of responsibility on your shoulders that I wish I could take from you…but I can't. You've always carried that burden with grace and commitment, and I know I can rely on you to do so now."

Leia straightened, jawline hardening. "I won't be left out of this."

Mon stared, long familiarity enabling her to gauge Leia's determination. Then she tipped her head a fraction.

"I'll be the one who presses the case for your brother's asylum," she said at last. "But I want to speak to him. I want to hear it from his lips."

Leia relaxed a fraction, relief loosing taut muscles. She hadn't wanted this to become a point of contention between herself and Mon. But she wasn't willing to let it go, either—not this.

For now, Mon slid her hand to Leia's arm and guided her gently to the exit. "Now go and get some sleep. He won't wake for a few days yet, and I get the distinct feeling that we'll all need to be on our best game when he does."

.

.

.

.

.

It was morning when Mon Mothma returned to the medicenter. A night of worry had made for poor sleep, and after a brief meeting of the Inner Council she'd returned here to stare at an unconscious and injured youth, trying to fathom whether he was an opportunity or a threat.

She didn't turn when the door behind her slid open and General Cracken walked quietly up beside her, knowing few would be granted access. One of the first orders of the day had been containment, and the posting of guards inside the entrance to the medicenter's high dependency unit, where they were at least a little less obvious, ensured their unexpected guest's secrecy. It would buy a day or so, Cracken had stated, but a ship was a contained system, and whispered questions would already have started. The decision to keep this as quiet as possible for now had led to the involvement of Cracken, head of Intel, who had created a false identity for their injured Sith as a Rebel infiltration agent wounded in action, who would soon return to continue his work behind enemy lines. On the rare occasions that such operatives returned to Rebel bases they tended to keep a low profile for their own protection, and their decision was generally respected.

In the meantime, Mon straightened slightly as Cracken came to a halt beside her, eyes on the unconscious man breathing only with medical intervention. With every rise of the mechanical bellows which inflated his lungs, there was an audible rasp—a reminder, if they needed one, of the youth's dark heritage.

Mon turned slightly in acknowledgment to see Cracken studying their charge with interest. Of the same age as she, he had a soft, amiable face which belied a sharply analytical mind, and she knew she could trust him to air whatever was within it with candor.

He remained silent for a while as he stared, lost in thought, before finally murmuring, "So this is the potential for all our future problems."

"He's also a seventeen year old boy with serious medical issues and a spice addiction," Mon said softly, eyes returning to the youth.

"I assume we're treating him?"

"Of course." She turned just slightly. "Would you prefer we didn't?"

"Not at all. In fact I'm very proud that we do. I just…wonder what we'll do next. At this moment, we don't even know if he'll comply with our standing laws and regulations."

"He approached us, General, not the other way around."

"Yes, I spoke briefly with Solo," Cracken said carefully. "I don't feel it would it be unnecessarily pessimistic of me to say the situation report reads very much like someone was in a tight corner and took the only way out."

Mon smiled at Cracken's typical frankness. "The fact remains that he was attempting to escape from an Imperial Star Destroyer. Judging from Leia's memory of their conversation, it sounds as if he may have been unwillingly in their custody."

"However, we have no reliable details either way."

"I'm sure you're working on that."

He let out a brief grunt. "Intel have no-one onboard the _Steadfast_. The last agent there failed to report over five months ago, without warning. I would add that he was a particularly experienced field operative."

Mon turned just slightly. "You think Luke Antilles…?"

Cracken sighed. "We have no Intel to support that, and Antilles has been high up on our priority list since Jedi Skywalker identified him as having survived Corsin. If he'd been moving freely onboard the _Steadfast_ then our agent should have recognized him—provided he saw him. We do know that the _Steadfast_ has been operating well outside of its boundaries for some time, though. It belongs to Moff Kessler's Fleet, but it's been exceeding its brief and travelling pretty much free-rein through Imperial territories for months. We also know that it was the Destroyer that gave the _Kathol's_ _Pride_ a bloody nose just a few months ago in the Tobali system… inside Alliance-held space. It's definitely made incursions in the past, because we have intel placing it in orbit over Rishi just over four months ago…which coincidentally was the last confirmed time and location that Antilles was sighted."

Mon stared at the bone-thin, unconscious youth. "Your opinion?"

"At this time, I don't have the information to give you an informed opinion."

"Your personal one?"

Cracken hesitated, eyes dropping in consideration. "I know you won't be forced into a hasty decision here, but I'd also caution you not to let his present condition fool you. You've known since he was eleven that the youth before you was a trained killer—that's what you're looking at now, injured or not. Remember that. Not just an assassin, but a Sith, raised and trained by Palpatine himself…and you know how ruthlessly capable Palpatine was."

"Have you read the medical report? What he went through, in his childhood?" It had been damning and difficult reading, the amount of now-faded injuries that medical tests had identified as inflicted in childhood years.

"I'm afraid that only proves my point, Ma'am. Despite—or maybe because of—everything he went through, the boy remained fanatically devoted to Palpatine when he was alive. Everyone in the higher echelons of the Imperial military knew that."

"Palpatine is no longer here, General."

"No, but his best work is. Don't misunderstand me, Ma'am, I think trying to rehabilitate him is admirable…I would just prefer that it wasn't done on the ship which you and several other key members of the Alliance travel aboard."

Mon paused, looking back to the boy. Pale-skinned and rake-thin, he looked incapable of being a genuine threat to anyone. And perhaps despite his words, Cracken felt the same, because he shuffled on the spot, voice losing its customary surety as he let out a long sigh.

"I don't know, I'm trying hard to do my duty here and see this from a security perspective, but all I can see is a seventeen year old kid who was bullied and browbeaten into being a soldier, to serve another man's ambition. I feel bad enough looking at the pilots in the bays onboard _Home_ _One_ , when they seem to get younger every year. I worry that they lose the best years of their lives to a war that's older than they are. This one…he never had a life."

"He did once, a long time ago," Mon said distantly. "He spent the first seven years of his life with Bail and Breha Organa. They were good friends, with good hearts."

"With all due respect, that was a long time ago," Cracken murmured. "I doubt he even remembers."

Mon nodded solemnly.

"Which is why I fear that he no longer has the ability to understand what we're offering him," she admitted quietly. "More, I fear how long it will take for Leia to understand that…and what the cost of the lesson will be."

.

.

.

.

.

.

Mara stood to one side of the long, high-ceilinged waiting room outside of Palpatine's Office, ensuring the Emperor's privacy, as ordered. After the last several days, those few who were entitled to wait in attendance knew better than to try to slip past, so her eyes wandered to the military-gray walls to her right, which gave way to a wide run of lozenge-shaped viewports.

Spanning floor to ceiling, each one was military-grade and inches thick but without a single distortion, offering a wide view of the entire length of the hulking Super Star Destroyer whose smooth armor-plate to its outer edges angled inwards to a sprawling cityscape of separate high-rise towers at its center, each twenty to thirty levels, its entirety dedicated to a single function within the new fleet—Intelligence, Logistics, Communications, Special Ops, Defense, Security, Reconnaissance, Legislation—a fleet, _an Empire,_ in the making. After a month onboard it remained an extraordinary flagship for a burgeoning fleet, the paradigm of a new Empire.

For something equally inspiring, one simply had to turn about and walk the run of expansive, sumptuously appointed and interconnecting chambers which spanned an entire five stories of the main command tower, purpose-built as part of the extensive suite of dedicated rooms which the Emperor himself now inhabited, always intended for his use onboard the _Executor_.

For his use…not as his permanent residence, as it was now.

Another reminder, if they needed one, of just how much had changed. How much needed to be reclaimed, by force if necessary—and therefore how much Palpatine needed his Sith advocate at his side, right now. Which made Luke's actions five days ago all the more bewildering.

Scowling at the vast cosmic void which had hidden him so effectively, she sensed rather than heard Shira step up close behind her, voice quiet.

"Did he tell you where he's gone?" Her thoughts obviously on the same subject, Shira spoke quietly as if this was secret that could be safely shared, though Mara knew her too well to even bother turning.

"If he had, I would have told the Emperor five days ago."

"You know our hot-headed deserter better than anyone," Shira murmured, stepping about Mara to lean her back to the viewports. She had no interest in what was out there; true power lay here and so, then, did her attention. "Or so I hear…?"

"Ships are hotbeds of gossip," Mara countered levelly, nothing given away. "From what I've heard, you knew him pretty well yourself."

"As you say, gossip's everywhere," Shira said. "Who told you that?"

"He did."

Mara felt a brief flush of satisfaction at the moment of uncertainty which flashed in Shira's eye—probably at her unanticipated knowledge—before it was tucked smoothly away.

Instead, Shira tilted her head in allowance. "Curiosity, that's all."

Mara's gaze travelled slowly back out across the span of the _Executor's_ hull. "I doubt there's very much out there that you have left to be curious about."

"I _am_ curious about why he's suddenly gone—and where."

"Perhaps it's the kind of thing you should have asked him. Or wasn't that what you were…curious about?"

"We seldom wasted time with smalltalk." Shira's glib reply belied her sharp eyes, which studied Mara closely, looking for a reaction she was disinclined to provide.

"You know he was only sleeping with you because you were giving him spice, don't you?"

"Is that what he told you?"

It was Mara's turn to tilt her head as she looked away with smooth confidence. "As you said, I know him better than anyone."

"Jealous? I'm flattered." Again Shira leaned close, her words a low whisper. "But you can't be greedy, Mara. You can't take from every table. You made your choice—you made your bed—now you have to lie in it. Or is it a little cold, now, after five days empty?" A brief shrug inched her a little closer as her voice dropped. "They're all just stepping stones, Mara. And there's nothing wrong with a little healthy ambition."

"Is that what you tell Palpatine?" Mara turned to face her fully. "Because I hear you've been working hard to climb the ranks there, recently."

She had the satisfaction of seeing Shira straighten slightly, realizing the error of her admission. Capitalizing on the moment Mara stepped back to end the conversation—but something made her pause, even now. "And incidentally, Luke Antilles is only a deserter if Palpatine says he is," she added flatly. "Which you'll notice he hasn't, to date."

"Give him time," Shira smiled, confidence reinstated, leaving Mara to wonder whether the woman had pushed for just that.

"The Emperor has already come to the decision that he wanted and it is, by definition, the right one—are you claiming you can change that?"

"You know I'd never presume to try," Shira retorted smoothly. "But I have the same faith in him that I have in you, Mara."

Mara turned, to see Shira studying her closely. "We're not enemies. Or at least we weren't—until Antilles came along. He'll try to turn you against everyone eventually, if you let him. So I'll tell you the same thing that I told him, because I believe it completely: He'll break you, Mara. He'll bring you low, and he'll break you apart. Don't get me wrong, I know you can look after yourself, and you'll do the same to him, but…it's too late by then, isn't it? The damage is done. Lord Vader always said that Antilles was a dangerous experiment that needed to be terminated before it caused real and lasting damage. I simply think Palpatine will come to realize that…and maybe you will, too."

With a knowing raise of her brows she withdrew, leaving Mara to turn back to her silent regard of distant space, considering.

Vader had claimed it many times; that Luke was too powerful, too unruly. But Palpatine had always overridden him, confident in his own control. He must be so even now, if he was so sure that Luke would return. Was she—did she have that same confidence?

But then Palpatine was given prescience by the Force. His reaction was the least of the mysteries which had lined her days, of late. Information—what little there was about Luke's… _departure_ —had come in brief bursts:

All that anyone knew for certain was that in the early hours of the morning following the battle in which the _Kreiger_ had been destroyed—the same night that Mara herself had been reprimanded by Palpatine for her failure of duty—Luke had transferred from the _Executor_ to the ISD _Steadfast_ without permission and had ordered it to lightspeed, placing it beyond comm contact for the duration of the jump.

For eleven hours they'd waited, whilst the _Steadfast_ remained in lightspeed, its heading unknown. Eleven hours in which Palpatine had ranted and raged, incensed, with not a single reasonable explanation as to Luke's actions. Even Mara had no idea what he'd been thinking, no idea why he would possibly act as he had.

A stray memory flashed, of Luke's voice in those familiar, self-depreciating tones: " _You know me; impulsive_ _."_

Insane, if he thought for one moment that he'd get away with this.

She had no idea—none whatsoever—what he thought he was doing. And she'd felt as bewildered as Palpatine was. As angry.

Because he'd left her, too.

Every time—every single time that she thought she'd finally worked him out, he didn't just flip the deck, he threw it in the air and turned over the gaming table.

The events of that day—Luke's destruction of the _Kreiger_ and Mara's reprimand for failing to do the same when ordered—had obviously had a bearing, but how? At the time, in that fleeting hours after Mara had faced Palpatine's dressing-down but before Luke had left entirely, it had for one brief bright moment all made a kind of sense. Dismissed by Palpatine, Mara had been thinking not of the ignominy of being confined to her quarters, but of the fact that despite everything—despite everything Luke said and did to her face, despite his every claim that he wanted nothing more to do with her—he'd clearly tried to defend her. Before Palpatine, no less. That night, she'd finally thought that she might just be beginning to see inside the crazy mass of contradictions that was Luke Antilles' mind—to _understand_ him.

And then he'd left.

Just when she'd thought he cared enough to try to defend her, to protect her, he'd left.

But that was secondary to his main misdemeanor—the one, unforgivable error. Because he hadn't simply abandoned her…he'd abandoned Palpatine. Failed in his duty to his Master.

And why should she even be surprised, given his constant insubordination?

Mara frowned at that; because it wasn't—not really. Yes, Luke argued and he contradicted and he challenged, often to Palpatine's face, but… she scowled, well aware of the fact that she felt driven to defend him, even now. But it was because she knew the truth; he didn't _mean_ it—any of it. In the end he always conceded, he always deferred. More—he actively collaborated. It was just that same wayward streak, looking to let off steam.

Even Palpatine had acknowledged that, in his own way. After his initial burst of vehement fury was spent and he'd sat at his wide desk, brooding on why the attempt to retrieve his errant Sith at Rishi had failed, he'd eventually cooled to an icy calm and repeated in assured tones that if he had been there, Luke would have returned.

And he was probably right. For all his insubordination, Luke never maintained the defiance face to face. How could he—how could anyone? There was something about meeting Palpatine's eyes, some instinctive recognition of the nature within that could render the strongest will silent. Something inspiring and humbling and utterly compelling, it had always seemed to Mara. It had made him an Emperor amongst men—had raised him up and carried him inexorably forward.

He was Sith because it had gained him the rank of Emperor. He was Sith because it served him; served his ambition and his immense will—not the other way around.

She stilled, brow furrowing in thought as she glanced to the closed door of the Emperor's offices… so why, then, was Luke Sith?

.

.

.

Palpatine ground his jaw, glaring through the unruly curtain of his loose, long hair at the scattered datapads across his desk, fuming that he had been reduced to this once more; to the schemer who must manipulate and maneuver a complex path to power. He had earned his place, his galaxy; his Empire. And now it faltered, crumbling for lack of leadership whilst he was forced to plot himself back to the prime position which he had created—crafted specifically for himself and no other.

And he must do this alone, no less! Because an advocate who had been two generations and three decades in the making had finally acted out the desire that had been playing through his thoughts since he was seven years old, turning his back on the man who had raised him, without even realizing that it was only because of Palpatine's constant harrying that he had the strength of will to do so!

This would never have happened before Corsin, when he'd owned the boy as completely as he always had his father. But having been allowed a year to run free, the advocate whom Palpatine had so assiduously trained had lost the discipline and restraint necessary to comprehend the significance of his betrayal. It came to Palpatine, then, to clarify that. He had no interest in Antilles himself; the boy was irrelevant. But the power within him that Palpatine himself had identified and cultivated—the power that the boy squandered and repressed—was Palpatine's and no-one else's. Anywhere else— _anywhere else_ —it was, by definition, wasted. He had created that power; it belonged to him. That it was, by necessity, channeled through another was immaterial. It remained his and his alone, and to have it stolen away was intolerable.

Emotions bubbled unstoppably to the surface as he sat in silence, fuming. Outraged. How dare he—how _dare_ he turn his back!

It could all have been dealt with immediately, if Palpatine had been in a position to risk taking the _Executor_ over the border. The boy would have sensed his Master's fury, would have understood the enormity of his indiscretion and would have returned, contrite—he would have. Would have buckled, as he always had. Palpatine had invested years of manipulation to ensure that.

It could have been averted, could have been—

But the damage was done, now. The act complete, events locked into place by the arrival of the local Rebel-controlled Destroyer—more than likely in reaction to the appearance of an Imperial Star Destroyer in orbit around the Rebel-held planet.

And Antilles would have known that—would have known that the Rebels would show. Would have intended it as the perfect way to discourage any further Imperial pursuit—though probably even he hadn't expected it to arrive quite so promptly. But he knew precisely the size of his Master's fleet and the fact that his Master wouldn't want a skirmish at this point, and therefore that if he made it over borders into Rebel-held space then he would be safe; Imperial pursuit would be forced to break off. And there was no need for him to worry about Rebel pursuit of himself; the Empire was hardly about to explain their presence there.

Palpatine's eyes narrowed, still fuming at the betrayal. It was a triumph of mind over matter to drag his thoughts back to the task at hand; containment. Re-acquisition. The boy had committed a gross misdemeanor in acting as he had, but retribution would be dealt with later, when he had been retrieved from whatever bolt-hole he'd gone to ground in.

Wherever he'd headed, whatever his intention, Antilles knew those dingy little backwater spaceports and half-settled Rim planet hideouts well; knew all their local hideouts and bolt-holes. He'd lived the last year of his life there, in his Master's absence. Had fled there specifically, knowing that Palpatine would order the _Executor_ to break off pursuit at the border, unwilling to compromise his greater plan by taking the Super Star Destroyer into Rebel-held territory before he could guarantee victory against the Rebels.

But to ensure that, he needed his Sith advocate—or at the very least, his abilities. Needed him willing and committed to the cause. Palpatine hesitated, eyes narrowing as he smoothed his long hair back from his face; so then, to have immediately found the boy and simply dragged him back to brow-beat him into reluctant half-submission yet again may not, in retrospect, have been the most advantageous path.

Every problem, the holocrons said, should be regarded as an opportunity. Problems were the affliction of the weak; the strong mastered them to their own advantage. Yes…with some careful maneuvering, this could become just that, integrated within greater plans. With Antilles absent, Palpatine could work to curb the boy's long-term responses without his awareness. To limit his choices. To narrow them down to a snare so fine that he wouldn't even realize as it tightened, pulling him inexorably back into his Master's influence.

Yes, all things could be woven back into a coherent whole, again.

The barely-formed twitch of a brief smile lifted Palpatine's lips as he glanced up, attention centered not in the room itself, but in the ante-chamber beyond, where two women waited with attentive patience to carry out the slightest whim of their master.

.

.

"Admiral Brie, I have a task for you. It is one which you have accomplished once already in the past, and because of this I have great faith placing it in your hands once more."

Already stood to sharp attention before his desk, Brie straightened slightly at the praise, knowing what was coming, and Palpatine obliged. "You are hereby granted command of the ISD _Steadfast_ , along with control mandate of the _Garrett_ , the _Ultima_ and the _Regis_. Your directive is to track down and take into custody General Antilles, by any means. Understand, however, that he is at present simply absent without sanction. His rank, status and privileges remain intact."

Her self-satisfied smile cracked just slightly, and Palpatine withheld a grin. Of the three, she was the easiest to predict in her unchecked ambition, and therefore to manipulate.

"Understand also, that you are not returning with your replacement. General Antilles' responsibilities and authority will never overlap your own. You are both necessary to the future of my Empire. However, one of you is absent…I would like that situation remedied."

As she brought her heels together in a military salute and made to leave, he turned his attention to his third Hand, the woman who was inadvertently responsible for so much of his advocate's defiance of late. He could, of course, have sent her away; some remote command far from here, which would have squandered her talents and Palpatine's opportunity. Could have incarcerated her and applied pressure, and simply waited for Antilles to return—all be it wrathful and reluctantly. Could have simply killed her, though that would have been a waste of years of training, as it would be to execute Antilles for his demeanors. But the art of true strategy was in its nuances. In the wielder's ability to take an obstacle, turn it inside out, and hone it into a weapon. Twist such problems in on each other and watch, enraptured, as they collapsed inwards to a single, artfully-contrived solution.

Then it became a joy. A passion. A calling.

He smiled as he settled back, aware that Jade would misinterpret it.

"You understand why you were not given command of a task force?" he asked calmly, now that they were alone. "Brie…she sees false value in such inanity. Loyalty can often be bought for the price of a few bars of rank on a uniform. But you…you, my child, have always been able to see through such irrelevancies. You have no need of false praise, because your loyalty is sincere. It glows at the very core of you and sparks in those emerald eyes. You alone stand steadfast and true. In you alone I place my faith, now. Antilles…" Palpatine glanced aside, expression darkening. "I refused to see his flaws; allowed them to fester."

"He'll come back to us, master," she said it quickly, looking to disperse his brooding anger. "I know he will."

His attention flicked quickly back, outrage darkening his thoughts at her presumption…but the brief snarl that was forming on his lips was transmuted to a smile as he nodded, forcing indulgence. "I know that, child. I raised him. I shaped his every thought and action. Of course he will return."

"Let me go after him," Jade pushed.

She shouldn't ask, she knew that—Palpatine had made his decision, and ordained a path; she knew better than to argue. Interesting, then, that she had tried…

"No. He will come back to me, I have seen it."

Jade's eyes flicked briefly to the door through which Brie had just left.

"She will most likely not catch him," Palpatine allowed. "But a task force under her leadership will clarify for him the gravity of his actions. He was always a contrary creature, and more than ever he won't be pushed or cornered. He's made that very clear, in his own inimitable way." He let a brief smile twitch his cheek. "I am most surely entitled to do the same. But he _will_ return of his own free will, when clear and lucid judgment takes hold…and when he does, he must be persuaded. Brought back fully to the fold. That is my task, not yours. Your mission is more finely suited to your unique talents."

With her attention centered, he pushed forward with wider plans. "I need to place an agent within the Rebel Alliance."

She pursed her lips, and he knew it was against the claim that any capable field agent could undertake the task, so he shook his head gravely. "No-one but you can accomplish this. To regain my Empire and destroy this burgeoning rebellion, I must place an agent in the very center of the rat's nest. And to do that I need an individual with the rarest of talents; the ability to hide their intentions, even from a Jedi."

"Give me just one month, master—one month to find Luke and—"

"No. That is Brie's task, not yours. Your contact with Antilles is at an end."

She had always hidden her feelings well—concealment was one of the few facets of the Force that he had invested time and effort in teaching her, in order to use her against others of her kind—but the burst of raw emotion which she tried so hard to tamp down at his words was shocking in its intensity. Disturbing in its implications.

Palpatine's eyes narrowed as he rose… _'He'll come back to us, master,'_ she'd said: '..come back to _us_.'

So this was the true extent of the problem.

Why had he not thought to look here before—not believed that the boy's blinkered fixation could possibly be reciprocal? Was he so old that he had forgotten the utter foolishness of youth, the wild, desperate flush of passion that overwhelmed all else?

They probably believed themselves kindred spirits, unable to see that they shared the same values because Palpatine himself had imprinted them. For his own use; no others.

Consciously loosing hands which had tightened to fists, he stepped forward, keeping his demeanour calm, as if her sentimental slip and his damning comprehension had simply not happened. Resting his hand on her shoulder, he guided her gently forward and out of the wide, dark office to walk the long run of chambers beyond, using the familiarity of the more innocuous rooms to soften his lesson…

.

.

Walking with her master, his hand still on her shoulder, a complex mix of uncertainty and nerves and portent rushing through her, Mara could feel her body brace for some unseen blow. His voice remained quiet and considered, though. Oddly informal, as they traversed the Super Star Destroyer's wide corridors.

"Occus Tor." When he finally spoke, he said the words lightly, amused almost. "A Black heart."

It left Mara cold, her step faltering, wondering whether it was an accusation—knowledge that she couldn't have, save through her intimacy with Luke.

But Palpatine continued without turning, eyes ahead. "You saw the tattoo when you first caught him—Brie listed it in her report."

Her breath came slowly from her loosening ribs as she nodded, matching his pace again. "I did."

"He was fourteen when he trailed back to the palace in the early hours of the morning. Half-awake and trying so hard not to give anything away."

Palpatine nodded slowly at the memory, recanting the tale casually as if between acquaintances, though he'd never once done such a thing before.

"He'd been absent for almost two days, and I had gone so far as to journey to his rooms in search of my errant advocate, by the time Viscount Indo had managed to track him down. So you see, it is far from the first time that my charge has simply disappeared; it has been…a regular irritation, throughout his latter years. When he reappeared that time, arriving on the morning of the third day as if nothing was amiss, he wore his jacket fastened all through the heat of the day as he remained in my presence, presumably in the hope that I wouldn't spot the sterile dressing that Viscount Indo had used after trailing him out to a private medicenter somewhere in the Palace District, in order to see how soon it could be surgically removed. It wasn't even the first time that the child who habitually scrawled random images on anything, had chosen to do so on his own skin. Really…did the Viscount truly think I knew so little about what happened in the halls of my own palace—my own city? When I saw it, I was…outraged. Furious."

Palpatine lifted his hand to rest it to the same point over his own chest, shaking his head as he smiled, as if he were an indulgent uncle at the end of his tether. But there was something more possessive than protective in the action, Mara saw it quite clearly.

"Now…" Again, that indulgent smile, oddly empty. "Now, I cannot imagine him without his black heart—and more importantly, neither can he. That is why he'll return to me. I _made_ him what he is. And if he chooses to carve such a claim into his own skin, then I will make him live up to it."

He slowed, bright ocher eyes skewering her, their preternatural glow disquieting and layered with meaning. "I would hate for him to lose such a heart. I would hate for it to move beyond my reach. You understand, Mara—I have branded that heart, that soul. He has done so himself, of his own free will. It belongs to me…and no-one else. And you, my pretty little soldier with the emerald eyes…I would hate to think that they too looked elsewhere, those precious gems. I would hate to see that head turn away. I couldn't tolerate that. I simply couldn't."

It was said with such affection, such benevolent forbearance…

It was the most chilling thing she had ever heard.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Han walked down the medicenter corridor for the fifth time that evening. Whenever he had a free minute he seemed to end up here, just checking in, to make sure the kid hadn't woken yet. The original estimate had been two days, but complications had stretched that to almost a week, now. The disturbing full-system breathing apparatus which had taken over lung function was gone though, replaced by far less invasive intubation which maintained positive pressure, though the drainage tubes to the side of his chest remained. They'd lowered the suppressant drugs in stages, both systemic and muscular, and the Mon Cal medic was once again expecting him to wake some time tomorrow, she'd said.

So all they were doing right now, was waiting. He nodded at the two men outside the door as he passed, privately reflecting that if they seriously thought that two guards with handguns would stop a Sith doing _anything_ , then they clearly hadn't seen one in action.

Walking through the main room and into the high dependency wing—emptied save for Luke himself—he was barely through the door of Luke's darkened room when he saw Leia, her back to him as she stood huddled to one side.

"Hey Sweetheart, come to…" He broke off, noticing Leia's tears in the low light as she tried to swipe them away. "What happened, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Leia sniffed. "Nothing, it's just… I was meditating, on Level Nine, and…when his shields are down like this, I…I saw his dreams. His nightmares." She pushed angrily at her tears.

Han wrapped his arms around her, driven as ever to protect her. Despite everything—despite all his doubts and uncertainties; despite all her Jedi tenets of detachment—in moments like this, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for each to lean on the other. "Hey, listen, it's over now. It's done. It's all behind him. An' look at this, you've got your brother right here. I gotta tell you Sweetheart, I never thought that would happen."

She sighed as she leaned into him. "It hasn't yet. The Council meet tomorrow to rule on whether he stays or not."

"What d'you mean, _or not_?" Han tensed against her, feeling his gut churn.

"Mon's said she'll push for the vote to offer him asylum, but—"

"Wait a minute, you already offered him asylum a year ago."

"I know that, and it's been motioned as an extension of an existing precedent, Mon's already assured that. But the terms of the offer were never clarified, even then. It all happened so quickly, you know that."

"I'm not leaving him again." He couldn't—wouldn't. Wouldn't be one final lesson in Palpatine's unrelenting line of examples of the unreliability of human nature. "I told him I never would, and then I did—that's what he'll think, how he'll see it. I sure as hell aren't gonna prove it for him a second time. If he goes now…I go with him. I have to."

Leia leaned back, and in place of the dissatisfied accusation that he'd expected to see, a brief, proud smile twitched her lips at his loyalty. Instead of voicing it, she lilted her head with a flash of mischief. "I'm not sure that'll go for him or against him."

"What, this place'd fall apart without me."

"I'll be sure to have Mon tell them that."

Her smile dropped to a more serious mood as she glanced back to Luke, still blissfully unaware of the ruckus he'd instigated—the kid could cause trouble even in his sleep, Han reflected.

Leia sighed. "I think the decision will rest on whether they believe he'll comply with their requests or not."

"What kind of requests?"

"He knows about Ghost Fleet."

Han felt his heart sink. "If they start puttin' terms on his being here, he'll just walk away. I know him. I know that's what he'll do, just on principle."

"They may not…let him walk out," Leia said quietly.

Han was silent a beat. "Seriously, I don't think they can stop him. Not once he's out of the medicenter." He paused, as the obvious thought occurred. "Will you? Will you try?"

She was silent a long time. "I don't want to lose him."

"They won't gain his trust if they tryin' to impose conditions. All they'll do is put themselves into opposition with him. I know how his mind works, how he was brought up. That kinda stuff is either black or white, for him, it's how he was taught. You either back someone, or by definition you're their enemy."

He paused as he spoke, hearing his own words and realizing anew just what it had taken for the kid to come to them at all, even after Palpatine's death.

"I'm not his enemy," Leia said quietly into his thoughts.

"I know you're not," Han acknowledged with a nod. "You're the one thing that stands outside of all that. Even back on Coruscant, he protected you from Palpatine. But this is likely to get bigger than just you and him pretty quick, isn't it? They look at him and they see his whole history. Or worse, they see an opportunity—the same one that he's likely just walked away from the Empire for. He's nobody's fool. He won't be used, and he won't be played. They try to do that, and he'll walk. And if he walks and they try to stop him, things'll get messy."

Leia glanced quickly up to Han, and he held her eye, sighing deeply. "He's not like you. That's not how he was raised. He'll drift along so far out of a mix of mild curiosity and zero sense of self-preservation, but he's got a line, and if they cross it—if anyone does—he'll snap. I mean instantly, from zero to one hundred in the space of a single decision. That's how he is, all or nothing. And if he does, he doesn't have your sense of conscience to hold him back."

Leia's face fell to a worried frown as he spoke, and Han felt a pang of guilt at his own inability to tell it any other way than exactly as it was. "I don't…I don't want you to be…I dunno, scared of him. He's not like that, either—he's not like Palpatine. He doesn't react without a reason. But…"

She smiled sadly. "But we shouldn't give him one, right?"

"You should give him the _right_ one," Han said. "Give him the right reason, and he'll react in the right way. Always worked for me."

"Because he trusted you."

"He trusts you—or he wants to. If he didn't, he wouldn't be here now."

"Maybe if he hadn't trusted me on Rishi, he wouldn't be _here_ now," Leia murmured, glancing to the sterile surroundings of the medicenter.

"You can't think like that," Han reached wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer. "Believe me, if there's an ounce of trouble goin' down anywhere, he's right in the thick of it. It's kinda his thing."

He heard her smile when she spoke, her voice muffled against his chest. "His _thing_?"

"That and angry; he does hacked off pretty well, too." Not wanting to be the voice of doom, he shrugged again. "But hey, he's been on the run a whole year. He might've mellowed right down."

"Did he seem mellow to you on Rishi?"

Han remained silent; they both knew the answer to that.

Leia sighed, voice turning serious as she leaned into him. "What are we going to do if he does that here?"

"I dunno," Han admitted, eyes on the sleeping kid. "Brace."

.

.

.

.

.

.

Luke came round slowly, hovering on the edge of awareness for a long time until he made the smallest attempt to cough. Then it was like a trigger had been tripped, and his whole body went into spasm as raking, grating coughs were pulled from the depths of his chest, making his abdomen heave and his body overheat in seconds.

Reality slammed back in brief flashes as he rolled to his side, aware of an unfamiliar being close by speaking in deep, persistent tones, cool hand on his shoulder.

"Breathe. You need to try to control it and breathe. Try to hold your breath a few seconds and it will ease."

He stared at the blurred spattering of scarlet on the edge of the sheet close to his mouth, dragging in deep breaths through an already aching chest, hearing the whooping sound that his throat made as his vocal chords engaged, but unable to quieten them. Only now did he realize that his eyes were barely open, and through flinching lids which burned and chafed, his vision was hazed almost beyond sight.

The cold, smooth-skinned hands rested to his shoulder as his head pounded, distant words of reassurance little more than vague sounds over the rush of blood in his ears. Collapsing back he gasped for breath, instantly exhausted, feverishly hot. Awareness slipped away, and he didn't even care.

.

Time shuttered in brief, shocked-awake interludes when the barking coughs took over his fatigued body, pulling painfully at the already aching muscles in his stomach and chest, and overheating his entire frame in seconds, each bout leaving him drained to the point that he could only drop back to restless half-sleep for hours afterwards until the next breathless, enervating attack brought dark, old blood into his mouth with every agonizing bout. His head and his temples pounded to the unsteady beat of his heart, his scratched and gritty eyes burning, the pain excruciating when he tried to open them. A self-dosing pain toggle had been pressed into the burnt skin of his palm, and he thumbed the switch whenever he woke. It wasn't enough.

In semi-lucid moments the exhaustion of simply breathing dragged him back to memories of barichamber tests when he was training to be a pilot. Of trying to hold laboring lungs just barely inflated when every nerve in his body was firing to tell him to try to drag in oxygen from the depleted air, knowing that if he did he'd fail the test and injure himself on repressurization. Back then, all the pilots taking the mandatory test had counted down with the timer on the wall, the oxygen mask they'd just removed clutched in tight fists; ten seconds; five, three, two, one…air! Now—now it was every minute of every hour of every day, dragging him from sleep to endure it anew, exhausted and spent.

It seemed an eternity before he sensed her; Leia, stood at his side, her concern a cool wash within his fevered awareness. He tried to open his eyes, but all he saw was vague shapes and massed, floating flecks in his vision. But her sense was a stable center in the Force, and her voice was soft and easing. She kept speaking as he blinked blindly, and the cooling presence shifted to be overlaid with purpose, guiding the path of his awareness. When he tried to follow it seemed at first a path of dense resistance, but her gentle coaxing led him on, and he trusted her.

 _Trusted her…_

Awareness of his body fell away as he followed her sense into a cool sea of focused energy.

.

.

Leia watched, enthralled, as her brother settled into the profound mental stillness of deep immersion in the Force, and the act gently washed her from his mind. She hadn't expected this. She'd taken his hand when she'd entered, upset at seeing and sensing his distress, and had reached out to him without even thinking. Had tried to explain to him the complexities of a healing trance…but she hadn't for one second expected that he'd be able to comprehend, let alone track her mind back to its healing center. He was Sith, trained from childhood. He was Sith.

Darkness didn't heal. It wouldn't be led. It didn't consign to or commune with the Force. It didn't trust. She reached out again to his mind, but the depth of the trance was too great, leaving only the sense of a calm ocean.

Stood very still she stared at his gaunt frame, torso bare, the worst of his skin burns patched by bacta, his lower body covered by a pale gray medical blanket, watching his chest rise and fall a little easier now, the two tubes which had been implanted between raised ribs to drain his lungs moving gently with him. He moved slightly, eyes flickering beneath swollen lids, but her gaze remained on his emaciated body, every rib visible. He wasn't weak, taut muscles wired over a rangy frame, but the spice which the medics had found in alarming quantities in his blood, and which Han had long since admitted to Leia that her brother regularly poured into his body, was so clearly taking its toll.

Why would he do that?

The scars on his body were many and old, most faded with age. Her thoughts dwelled on them for a second—on the life her brother had withstood. On her own childhood, first on Tatooine under the care of Owen and Beru Lars, and later onboard _Home One_ , the bubbly, excitable little mascot of so many fighter wings and Special Ops teams. The apple of Obi-Wan's eye. The focus of Mon Mothma's compassionate care. All that protection and kindness and nurture.

She remembered again that very first image she had seen of Luke, a silent little shadow aged ten or eleven, pushed out onto the balcony of the Imperial Palace on Coruscant and paraded—flaunted—by an Emperor who knew exactly what he was doing. He was showing the Jedi just what he held. What he had control over. Had already intimidated and influenced for five long years, whilst they had thought her brother dead. Had used a child to lure Obi-Wan and Master Yoda out into the open, when they tried to retrieve him. _Failed_ to retrieve him.

He'd seemed so passive, the slight, still boy in those images. Standing in tense, dutiful silence whilst the Emperor held him, long, crooked fingers about her brother's slim shoulders. But then what else could he be, a child, alone. She looked again to the faded scars on his torso and wondered if so many could ever possibly be benign, or if each one signified a question or refusal, instantly punished.

A brief rush of images assaulted her, from her brother's dreams a few days earlier, his mind for once rendered unguarded by a mix of exhaustion and drugs. Her eyes slowed at a more recent scar across his upper shoulder, the burned indent still marking his skin a year after its infliction. She had done that, in fury and grief at Obi-Wan's death. She'd wanted someone to blame…so she'd blamed him. And he'd let her. Had let her rail against him, holding off from defending himself until the last possible moment.

She had done that, to her own brother. She hadn't known that fact when she'd done it, but still…she had been as guilty as anyone else of seeing only the reputation, and not the individual. Of seeing the Sith. And he'd let her. Likely because that's what everyone did. Because that was what he'd been told he was, from the age of seven.

Looking for escape from her own guilt, her eyes were drawn inexorably to the large tattoo just left of center on his chest, rendered in dark hues. It was a heart whose black-etched surface was surrounded by a dark blue faceted starburst, wrapped about with a ribbon and a sharp-thorned branch. Written on the ribbon in ornate Bocce script, a language she knew well from her own Rim upbringing, were the words _'Occus Tor'_ : Black Heart

She stared, wondering at his mindset in the moment that he'd chosen it, so sure of the fact that he'd been prepared to have it carved indelibly into his skin.

He moved again, turning slightly away from her in sleep, and as the blanket moved with him and dropped slightly, for the first time she saw another tattoo. This one was low on his hip and closer to the back than the front, barely visible over the drawstring sleep-pants he wore.

In fine lines of deep blood red, it was smaller than the palm of her hand, its stylized design forming a circle. The familiar style, color and image meant that it had almost certainly been done on Tatooine, probably when Luke had been there a year ago. It was a krayt dragon, whose elongated body curled back on itself so that it was eating its own tail.

Again she wondered at her brother's mindset when he'd chosen this, alone and bereft, cast adrift by the momentous events which had killed both his sadistic Master and his brutal, abusive father. Despite all that Han had said of their fractured relationship, Luke had somehow felt driven to track his father's past back to the dry, desiccated dust of Tatooine, alone. And what had he discovered there… a desperate path that had snatched a child slave from its baked and wind-whipped sand to struggle through the hardship of galactic war and punishing trials. The damaged psyche of a man who had never broken free from his own scarred past, a fundamental failure that had eventually cost everything dear to him and damned him to a life trapped within the quagmire of his own dark and uncontrollable rage, before he too was finally reduced to nothing more than scattered dust.

What had Luke thought, when trying to comprehend that? Alone, aged just sixteen, and painfully aware that he'd spent most of his own life in servitude to the same vicious, vindictive Master. Why choose this image to carry with him from Tatooine, for the rest of his life?

Had he seen renewal, in the symbolic image of the dragon eating its own tail—a chance, at great cost, to begin again…or had he seen something else? Had he seen instead the unavoidable prospect of unending repetition; re-creation, but of the same that had come before?

Because despite consuming itself entirely to begin again, the dragon was still reborn a dragon.

What did he believe he carried forward within himself, of his father?

He twisted again in uneasy sleep, rolling onto his back with a shallow sigh, and her eyes came once more to the dense, dark ink of the tattoo on his chest which moved with his every breath, very much a part of him:

 _Occus Tor_

A Black Heart

.

.


	19. Chapter 19

.

Hey everyone :)

Sorry I dropped off the grid for a while there - Real Life got a few really good rib-punches in which I had to deal with, and then get my breath back.

Hopefully back to normal now-quick, everybody touch-wood!

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER NINETEEN**

.

.

.

Leia watched her brother drag himself to awareness, fighting to choke back another coughing fit, his bacta-wrapped hand rising to his chest as a fist, every muscle taut. Involuntary spasms from spice withdrawal still shivered through his frame every so often, making him close his eyes and grit his teeth, though he'd said nothing to the medic. But the worst of the injuries and the withdrawal were now fading, brought to heel by the healing trance which had lasted two full days and nights.

Leaning forward, she keyed the medical bed to angle at its head, lifting him into a half-sitting recline as he blinked repeatedly, obviously trying to pull the world into focus.

"How are you feeling, Luke?"

He took a breath then paused against the desire to cough, before whispering hoarsely, "How long have I been here?"

"You asked that before," she replied patiently. "You've been here eight days. You've woken intermittently for the last two. The medic said that—"

She fell to silence as he broke into a cracked, harsh laugh when his limited gaze passed beyond her to Mon, who was stood a step back, patiently waiting. Reining in her frustration at his deliberate provocation, Leia kept her voice level, moving aside slightly as Mon stepped forward.

This wasn't going to go well.

"Luke, this is—"

"Oh, I know who she is," Luke croaked. "A year ago, she'd've been dead if I'd had the opportunity to get this close to her."

To her credit, Mon's hand remained extended and open, perfectly steady. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Luke."

He looked at her proffered hand without lifting his own, still wrapped in bacta. "Yeah, I'll bet it is."

Mon remained still and expectant, hand out, and despite the telltale signs of fatigue in his fast-flickering eyelids over milky eyes, Luke met her gaze equally unwavering. "You don't want to shake my hand. You don't even want me on your ship."

"I don't want to shake Luke Antilles' hand, no…but I most certainly want to shake the hand of Luke Skywalker—Leia's brother."

He blinked—practically flinched—completely thrown. "That's not my name."

"Neither is your name Antilles."

He tensed, the edge in his voice taking on a dark threat that Leia didn't understand. "Antilles was my mother's name."

Mon paused delicately. "Your mother's name was Padmé Amidala Naberrie, Luke."

"Really? So where was she when Bail and Breha Antilles gave their lives for me?"

"Your mother died in childbirth. You and your sister were split up for your own safety immediately afterwards, and Bail and Breha adopted you just days after you were born. I knew them both very well…" Mon nodded sadly. "They were benevolent and altruistic, an inspiration to us all. Their loss was keenly felt."

"Not so keenly that you didn't risk putting them into that position in the first place."

Leia blenched. "Luke!"

"What?" His voice was failing, even if his will wasn't. "Is the hard truth a little too unpleasant around all these noble ideals?"

"Not at all," Mon said calmly. "They _chose_ to help you, Luke. They wanted to be involved, no matter what the risks, in creating the future they hoped would come to pass. To hear you defend them with such passion is heartening."

Luke glared, blinking, no comeback to that. A shudder shook his body in the next moment, tensing his muscles and locking his jaw, and leaving him breathing heavily against it as it subsided.

Mon waited a few tactful moments, then continued as if it had not taken place. "Bail and Breha Organa very much hoped that you would be trained as a Jedi as you grew. That you would…would find a place for yourself here, with us. That—"

"Liar."

Mon shook her head gently. "You surely know that Alderaan and its leading families harbored sympathies towards the Republic. Your adoptive parents were at the vanguard of that principle. They would have raised you to respect—"

"They were Loyalists…" Luke stalled, though Mon pushed gently on.

"Why would we ever have placed you with them if they were Imperial Loyalists, Luke? Master Yoda and Master Kenobi would never have left you with staunch Imperialists, and if for some reason they had, why would Bail and Breha not have handed you over to the Emperor willingly?"

He glared down at the blanket which covered him without replying, and Mon softened her voice. "These are, it seems, questions for another time."

"Don't think you'll gain any further advantage by spewing more out now?"

"Luke!" Leia said quickly—but Mon held her hand up, her voice remaining calm.

"I understand that these things are hard to hear, given your upbringing. I'm sure that Palpatine invested a great deal of time and effort into—"

"Are you going to claim that you know the truth about that better than me, too?"

Mon paused a second, licking her lips. The directness of her next question startled Leia. "I have to ask, Commander Antilles…where do you feel your own loyalties lie?"

Maybe it took Luke by surprise too, because he scowled for second then looked away, eyes dropping to his bacta-wrapped hands, resting on the white bedlinen. "I don't have an answer for you."

Mon nodded slowly. "That's actually more encouraging that I'd hoped."

"Don't get too _encouraged_ ," Luke repeated dryly. "It doesn't lie with your rebellion. It never will."

Mon held steady eyes on Luke, and he returned the gaze through white-marred eyes, neither backing down. Eventually Mon's chin lifted slightly as she came to a decision. "The Alliance is prepared to offer you provisional asylum, as you requested… However, it seems that now is the time to clarify that we would appreciate your cooperation in certain matters, in return."

"What matters?" He couldn't have been more skeptical.

"Firstly, and most importantly, we ask that you curb your actions in respect of your surroundings."

"Were you expecting me to go around painting anti-Alliance slogans on walls? A few Imperial insignia, maybe?"

Mon pushed on, unruffled. "You are, by your own admission, a Sith. You also have lifelong connections with the highest levels of the Imperial chain of command which, also by your own admission, you do not entirely renounce. In order for your asylum to continue, we must ask that you agree to abide by the laws and conventions in place here, and respect any further restrictions and provisos that we may feel the need to place. We also ask that you provide us with certain information which—"

"Regarding what?"

"I understand that you mentioned the _Executor_ to Leia. I assume therefore, that you have knowledge of both it and the Ghost Fleet. We need to know who formed and financed it, who's leading it, and what their intentions are."

His expression had hardened as Mon spoke, and Leia felt her heart sink at his answer.

"I didn't come here as an informer."

"Do you believe we're not entitled to certain truths?" Mon pushed. "You surely understand the situation that we have placed ourselves in, by extending our protection. Any information that you give us would—"

"No. I won't talk about present policy."

"But you do know?"

His voice was weakening as he brought his arms up to press the heels of his bandaged hands against his forehead, visibly tiring already as he dropped heavily back down against his pillow, body if not his will failing. "I won't talk about present policy."

"You understand, our—"

Luke hauled himself straight again. "If you want me to leave, say so now and I'll walk out of here. I assume my ship's still in your bay, and that Solo didn't completely wreck it getting it here."

Leia glanced to Mon. "Your freighter was damaged, Luke. We haven't had time to repair it yet."

"Well what a surprise." The dry disbelief in his roughly grated words stung, and Leia lifted her chin.

"The Alliance maintain an entire fleet of ships from heavy assault frigates to snub nose fighters and speeders, all of which require constant repair and upkeep. A privately owned freighter simply isn't a priority. Even yours."

He glanced sideways to her, the brief glare as cutting as anything he could have said aloud. But his body chose that moment to betray him as he tried and failed to control a bout of raw, hacking coughs that doubled him over in the medical bed and left him heaving for breath.

Leia gave him a minute to recover, his red-rimmed eyes closed as he fought to level his breathing. When she spoke her softened tone came naturally. "You're too ill to leave."

"That's not your call. And it's not..your..responsibility." He was struggling to hold a sentence together already, forced to stifle the next bout of wrenching coughs.

"You seem in a big hurry to leave, for someone who just requested asylum here."

"I'm not out of the medicenter yet, and already you're pushing f…for answers," he grated quietly.

"We're asking questions," Leia corrected gently. "Luke, you yourself said that there's a Super Star Destroyer and therefore probably a sizeable Imperial task force willing to enter Alliance space to reclaim you. Taking that into consideration, do you really think it's fair to withhold the information necessary for us to protect ourselves?"

Another brief bout of shivers wracked through him, and his tensed his hands to stop them visibly shaking as he glanced about. "We're not onboard the _Steadfast_ ," He said it with absolute certainty, voice low to control it.

"It's called the _Kathol's Pride_ now," Leia corrected, knowing that he was refusing to acknowledge that on purpose.

Luke didn't even blink. "We're on a Mon Cal vessel, if the interior floors and walls are anything to go by. And the ringleader of your Rebellion is here. That means we're onboard _Home One_. That in turn means that the _Falcon_ would have had to clear Rishi and launch into lightspeed to rendezvous with it. Since we both…know that..a ship in lightspeed can't be tracked, we also both know that th…the Empire doesn't know where I am, short of y..your having informed them." His voice was cracking again, reduced to a broken whisper as he struggled more and more for breath.

His eyes closed for a moment, then opened suddenly to look to Leia. "Did you find the tracker they'd planted on me?"

She nodded. "It was mid-range—planetary, but no further. We've removed it, anyway. It had probably been there for—" It was brief and intense, like a flash-bomb exploding within her mind, the power of the Force-fuelled search taking her breath away as she flinched a step back beneath the onslaught, summoning mental defenses a split-second too late—

Then it was gone as quickly as it had come, folding back into itself without a trace, as only a Sith could do. Mon stepped in quickly to place one steadying arm on Leia's as she struggled to play the moment down, aware that Luke had glanced aside, scowling, his anger at himself.

"I needed to know if you were lying."

Leia forced her breathing level, trying not to show how much the intensity of that battering burst had unsettled her. "You could have asked."

"I…didn't think."

Mon straightened. "Luke, we must establish right now that a stipulation of your remaining here is that you do _not_ utilize the Force in any way."

Those dark-dyed eyes lifted to her, their milky haze betraying a physical weakness which Leia realized only now that his mind—his abilities—didn't share. But as quickly as it had flared, his brief flash of anger subsided. "Fine. Not a problem."

Leia stared for a moment, uncertain why he'd acquiesced so quickly on that of all points… but he moved the conversation on with a question.

"How long before I can get out of here?"

"The medi-center?" Leia asked. "They think another week or so, then you'll need physio for your lungs, and medication for another few weeks. That might—"

"No, I mean leave. How long before I can leave?"

"… Leave—the Alliance? You only just got here."

He wouldn't meet her eye. "And already it doesn't seem to be working out. Does it?"

"Why do you want to go?"

He glanced aside, lifting his hand to gnaw at his thumbnail where it was visible through the bacta wrap, the act making him suddenly seem his age. "I don't know why I came in the first place. I just saw you and…" He glanced to Mon as if remembering her presence and straightened a fraction, lowering his hand. Obviously realizing how vulnerable he looked, he moved to counter it by forcing his voice stronger, his words terse. "I made a mistake. A bad call. I should leave."

He was already pulling the sheets back as he said the last, his decision made, it seemed.

"Luke…" Leia couldn't keep the confusion from her voice; the hurt. "…You asked for asylum."

"I thought I could do this—could be here. I was wrong." His sigh, as he glanced down, held a rough rattle of lungs not even nearly healed. "You don't want me here, believe me. The temptation's just too great."

"What do you mean?"

"This is _Home One_ , right?" He glanced up, head tilting a fraction…and it was surprising the difference it made to his demeanor; the unspoken threat it instantly added. "This is the ship the Empire spent years working out how to bring down…and I'm onboard. I gotta tell you, my head's buzzing with possibilities right now."

"You're not where you were a year ago. Nothing is, you know that."

"Still…"

"When we picked you up you were on the run from a Star Destroyer, Luke. You were on the run from the Empire. How does that fit into those thoughts you're having?"

His gaze turned down, framed by a scowl. "It doesn't…but neither do you. Sorry."

"I don't believe you."

"Do you believe in millennia of history?" The cloud across his eyes caught the light as he lifted his gaze and loosed a brief grin. "The problem with Jedi, you see, is that you assume that deep down all Sith want to be saved. We don't."

"So…what? You'll go back to the spaceports and the sabacc bars…until they pick you up next time."

"I don't know what I'll do yet." His bacta-wrapped hands were shaking again, body tensed against another bout of coughs.

"Then why not stay here, until you decide?"

"You don't want me here."

"You've already said that."

"Because it's true." He didn't actually glance to Mon, but the brief flicker of his eyes revealed his thoughts. "Nobody wants me here—least of all me."

"Fine, you don't want to be here. I get that. And the Jedi and the Sith Orders have a history of entrenched enmity. I get that, too. You've made your point. D'you want to know mine?"

"Not really."

She sighed, aware that he was trying to push her away and just as determined not to be. "Mine is that you're my brother. You're my _brother_ , Luke."

His lip twitched briefly. "You know what Han called it? An accidental crossing of fate and fatherhood. I always kinda liked that." He looked briefly to Leia. "Well, he didn't exactly say it out loud, but he thought it, more than once."

Leia looked down with a smile. "He kind of thinks loudly, doesn't he?"

For the first time, a brief grin tugged at the corner of his lip. "Has an opinion even on the rare occasions that his mouth is shut."

A moment's silence stretched, in which shared amusement lowered the tension a notch, before Leia sighed.

"Where would you even go, Luke?"

He hesitated, losing a fraction of his certainty, though he maintained that harsh front. "It's none of your business."

"You made it my business, when you asked us for help."

He glanced meaningfully about the medi-bay, voice dry. "And you made such a good job of that. Really. I couldn't have…put myself in a medicenter without you."

Leia looked away, stung, as Mon shifted beside her, every defensive emotion firing in reaction. But then Han had warned Leia that her brother could get under anyone's skin inside of thirty seconds, if he was trying.

"We just want to help you."

Again his eyes flickered to Mon. "Help…or contain?"

This time Leia wouldn't let him get away with it. "I think you're letting other people's preconceptions of us color your own judgment…which I'm surprised at. I would have thought you'd been on the receiving end of that kind of prejudice too often, yourself. You seem to me to have very much a mind of your own when it comes to sorting out who to trust…however unlikely the situation."

The sharp awareness behind those clouded eyes skewered her as the silence held for long moments…until Luke glanced down to hide his amusement. "You should have gone into politics."

She smiled, aware that the moment had been broken…for now, at least. "Believe me, some days it feels like I did. Will you stay?"

He didn't look back up—but he nodded once, jaw flexing, though she couldn't tell if he was angry or apprehensive. She'd taken a breath to ask, when Mon's hand rested lightly to her arm.

"Leia, could I…have a few moments with your brother, please?"

.

.

The door slid shut behind Leia, and Mon lifted her gaze to Luke _Antilles_. Truth or not, it may be a while before he'd accept any other name. Tense lines had hardened around his eyes, she noted, now that they were alone. It was Leia, then, who would be his control here. Leia alone, who might stand some chance of reaching this troubled and dangerous youth. And it was Leia whom she wanted to speak of, now.

"There is one further condition that I must stipulate, if you are to remain here."

"Don't worry, I don't intend staying long."

"That's your decision…and your choice, through your own actions whilst here. In the meantime I'm sure that Leia will, naturally, want to speak with you. She will likely want to try to understand you—your motives, your standpoint, your codes of belief…."

He looked away, voice level, as if boring of the coded conversation. "I've no interest in turning her, if that's what you're asking."

Mon licked her lips. "You can appreciate however, why I would feel the need to ask you such a thing."

"Not really, no. If Leia were a Sith it would place us in just as much contention as if she were a Jedi—and it would increase her powers tenfold. Why would I want that?"

"Then you agree to the stipulation that you will make no attempt to…challenge her beliefs."

He met her eyes. "I wonder if you've made the same _stipulation_ with Leia?"

Mon ignored that. "Lieutenant Solo seems confident that, as you did on Coruscant in the past, you will continue to protect the truth of Leia's lineage whilst you are here. Is he correct?"

"That's two."

Mon remained silent, and he tilted his head.

"That's two conditions. You said one."

Mon lifted her chin, voice hardening. "Is he correct?"

Luke looked down, voice matter-of-fact. "Leia's genealogy is her own problem to deal with."

"Unless it's lying in my medical center," Mon said pointedly.

His lip twitched in a brief, feral smile. "Worried?"

"I'm sure you realize just how effectively you could undermine your sister's position and her future here, if you were to tell anyone the truth."

The dry laugh was a broken rasp in his injured throat. "Who'd believe me."

"May I take that as a no?"

He stared a second…then twitched his shoulders in a brief expression of disinterest, eyes moving away. "You can take it as a no."

"And should that decision change?"

"I can't imagine a situation where it would."

"That wasn't my question."

He looked back to her, voice tightening again. "Well don't you like to cross all your T's and dot your I's."

"I'm a politician. It's my job. I'm also Leia's guardian, until she reaches eighteen years of age. And…I care very deeply for her. I wish to protect her, to make what will always be a difficult path as smooth as I can. I wonder if you can comprehend that?"

His eyes had narrowed, the dense opaque of their damaged lenses leaving Mon to wonder how much of his unexpected weakness he was willfully concealing.

"You think I don't know what compassion is?"

"This isn't compassion, Luke. This is deeper. This is love. Leia is like a daughter to me, and I will do anything I have to, to protect her."

He stared as if she'd uttered the incredible, the unspeakable. Something fascinating and inconceivable.

Mon held his eye, more unsettled by this than any of his barbed retorts. "Is that so alien to you?"

He looked away, voice tempering as his shoulders dropped just slightly. "No…no."

She hesitated, aware from the abrupt change in his body language that some invisible barrier had been crossed as his hoarse voice moved from laconic belligerence to uneasy forbearance, the lack of that dry edge as he continued making it instantly and oddly sincere.

"I have no issue with Leia or her beliefs, and no plans to undermine her."

Mon nodded, feeling it best to leave this conversation there, aware that to push further might destroy the brittle goodwill which had formed in the last few moments. "Thank you. I'll leave you to your rest."

Mon felt his eyes on her every step of the way as she left, her thoughts already running through the last few minutes of their conversation as the medicenter door closed behind her. Had she just seen the one fragile fraction of hope that they might reach him…or proof absolute, that he was beyond any hope?

.

.

.

.

.

.

Han paused outside of the locked door to the medicenter, ignoring Cracken's hand-picked guards stood to either side as he braced himself. Luke had been up for a full day now, and hadn't asked to see him. Which didn't bode well, all things considered.

Yeah, they'd been _kinda_ okay onboard the _Falcon_ , but Han was pretty sure it had been out of necessity; that both had been simply surviving. In that situation, surrounded by serious problems which needed to be dealt with there and then, they'd both acted like the career soldiers the Empire had trained them to be, and put all else aside. They'd needed to, just to stay alive. Now…now the threat was gone, everything else past and present, had crowded back into its place. That was a whole hell of a lot of baggage to be dealt with, and Han wasn't naïve enough to believe otherwise.

Kid would be angry at him for all that he'd done. How could he not be?

But Han hadn't meant it to be like this—hadn't meant it to ever be something the kid would have to deal with alone. Fact was, Luke had every right to be angry with him. This time around, it was Han's turn to face the music and let Luke loose off a little steam before they could move forward. He knew that.

Letting out a long breath, he gave himself a moment more…then hit the door release.

Luke was sat up on a chair beside the high medical bed, sideways on to the door. Wearing blue drawstring medical pants and an open dressing gown, he still looked a mess, skin patched with red welts from the corrosive korfaise gas, a canula in his vein and another tube taped to the side of his bare chest still draining his lungs, both tubes attached to separate bags on a wheeled IV pole beside him. A positive airflow ventilator which connected to the minimal, single-tube oxygen dispenser behind him was hooked across his face and behind his ears, and his rasping, labored breath sounded painful even from six paces back.

He'd also been almost ten days without spice, and despite anti-withdrawal meds, Han knew from his Mon Cal medic that the kid had gone through the full gamut of severing high-dependency—from fever and vomiting to violent tremors—sapping what little reserves he had. A good part of that had mercifully been without his awareness, which was just as well, since Han knew damn well that Luke would've gone searching, had he been able.

Slight and slim and visibly weak, he looked younger than ever—a kid forced to grow up too fast.

He also looked fiercely reserved, silently brooding, closed up tighter than the first day Han had met him.

Han slowed by the room's second chair, hesitant to sit. "Hey," he tried.

Still shaking and trying hard to hide that fact by clutching at the arms of his chair, Luke glanced only momentarily to him. But it had already lodged in Han's mind from the moment he'd seen him on Rishi, so he went for the obvious opener.

"You've got brown eyes."

He watched the muscles in Luke's jaw flex for a moment as he decided whether to answer at all…then spoke, voice tense and terse, eyes down. "I dyed them."

It wasn't unknown, though even the thought of it had always made Han squirm; if you had pale eyes, you could pay some of the high-end tattooists to inject a temporary dye directly between the iris and the cornea. Lasted about three or four months from all accounts, before it began to naturally dissolve as antibodies took hold and— "Wait a minute, _you_ did it? How the hell did you do it yourself?"

"With a mirror," the kid said levelly, his voice hoarse and rasping.

"You know how dangerous that is!"

Luke looked away, trying to hide the withdrawal-fed tremor in his injured hands by curling them to fists. "Right, 'cos that's the most hazardous aspect of my life, right now."

"I'm serious. How the hell do you even do that to yourself?"

"One eye at a time."

Han was aware of the face he pulled as his stomach heaved. "Hell's teeth, you can't just…" he sat without thinking, leaning in to look closer, though Luke still wouldn't meet his eye. "Did it hurt?"

"You're sticking a needle in your own eye, then forcing liquid beneath the surface—what do you think?"

"Can't you…numb it?"

"No, you need both eyes to be able to focus so you can maintain depth perception. Always important when you're trying to stick a needle into the space between your eye and the lens." Luke finally glanced up. "Squeamish?"

"About sticking needles in my own eyes? Hell, yeah."

Kid looked away, scowling to cover the little break in his own tight shields; if there was one thing that always got through to him, Han knew, it was straight-up honesty. So Luke shrugged now, beneath Han's queasy gaze.

"Stings like hell for a day, but I…smoked something, and went to sleep. It settles in three or four. You can't feel it's there inside a week."

His rough voice was still a mess to Han's ears, the rattle as he pulled in each rasping breath—the way his chest fought to rise—painful to watch. Han bit back his temptation to go onto the subject of just how much spice the medics here figured that the kid had been pushing through his system. It wasn't the time, yet. Instead, having broken the ice, he braced himself and went for the real issue.

"So…" Not quite knowing how to say it, he fell back on the familiar, remembering how many times the kid had willingly come to see Han when he thought he and not Han had been the one in the wrong. "…you want to take a swing at me? Like you always used to say, first one's free."

Luke's half-clouded eyes had gone down again and he wouldn't raise his head; wouldn't look at Han. "Why would I do that?"

"You know why."

"Oh," Kid couldn't have been more dismissive. "You mean the whole, 'You killed the man I'd sworn to protect, and helped to rip the Empire that we both vowed an oath to serve, to shreds' thing…you mean that, right?"

"Well, I see it a little differently, but yeah, all that."

Luke shrugged, keeping it all bottled up, hoarse voice maddeningly calm as another brief bout of shivers took his thin frame. "You didn't do anything that others hadn't already done to me."

Han frowned, waiting, and Luke shrugged with feigned indifference. "Palpatine, Vader, you… You all did the same. You all just stepped into my life and took over. Took any chance at self-deliberation away from me, because it didn't suit your own intentions. Didn't matter what I wanted, you all just bulldozed ahead and did whatever the hell you intended anyway. Palpatine took me from Bail and Breha Organa for his own benefit, Vader removed Palpatine to ease his guilty conscience, and you…you took everything from me, for…whatever the hell your reasons were. I don't really care, any more."

Han stared, mortified to be included in the same breath as Vader and Palpatine, let alone have his motives compared. "Wait a minute, what I did, I did for you—to get you out of there."

Luke glanced away. "Yeah, I heard that one before. Palpatine said it to me weekly, when I was growing up. It's funny, how all these things that people do, all these things that are so _necessary_ for me, just happen to coincide with whatever the hell they were intending anyway."

Han stared, shaken more by the verbal body-blow the kid had casually delivered than any physical strike. But then Luke had always known just exactly how to mess with anyone's head; he'd learned from a true master. "You know—you _know_ I wouldn't do that."

"Whatever. I'm past caring any more. The why's and wherefore's don't really matter. Point is, you stepped into my life and took over, like it was your right." The kid finally lifted his head to look Han in the eyes, his own glazed by that haze of surface damage. "And it wasn't. It's as simple as that. That's all it comes down to, at the end of the day. It wasn't your call to make."

"I was tryin—"

"I _trusted_ you," Luke hissed sharply, in a brief spark of tamped down fury. "You pushed and you pushed me to do that, so I let you in and I trusted you…and you instantly assumed that gave you some kind of right to make decisions on my behalf. To dictate the way my life should be. It didn't."

"I was trying to help you."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"Yes you did. Every single day you kept me there, that was exactly what—"

"No. I asked for your support."

"I was giving it! By doing what I—"

Luke stood abruptly…then sat again, probably realizing that, attached to medical equipment and with his body probably unable to make more than a few paces anyway, he had nowhere to go. The knuckles of his hands clasped on the arms of the upright chair as he sat, whitening as they tensed. "I'm not going to argue this any more. It's done. I told you, I don't care."

"Yeah you do," Han said quietly, not for a moment fooled. "You must, because I sure as hell do. I care what you think about me and why you think I did what I did. I want you to understand."

Luke glanced up sharply. "Why, so I'll be stupid enough to trust you again?"

"No, so you'll _understand_. Look at you, you carry it around with you every day. I don't want to be the reason you—"

" _Carry it around with me_? You make it sound voluntary! I'm not carrying it around, Han, I'm _living_ it. Living with the decisions _you_ made on my behalf! I've had to live with them every single day, since."

"But it didn't have to be alone," Han said steadfastly. "I never wanted that! You know you could have contacted me at any time and I would have dropped everything and come. I've been looking for you all this time. You could have been here, you could have been safe—"

"With the Rebels?" Luke practically laughed aloud, but the sound came out as a breathless rasp. "Their trained Sith, who jumps through hoops on command?"

"No, what the hell?!" He reined himself in, knowing that it was all the kid had ever known; conditional protection and lifelong abuse from everyone close to him. "Not with me, not ever. You know that."

"No, I don't," the kid said quietly. "I thought I did. I thought there was one person I could actually trust in the whole damn universe…and then one morning he fed me an overdose of spice and sleeping pills to put me down, whilst he bought my enemies the opportunity to murder my Master and rip my whole world apart."

"That's not how it happened and you know it," Han said, quieter. Was that really what the kid had talked himself into believing? "I wanted you safely away, that's all."

"While you gave the Rebels their chance at Palpatine. Convenient timing."

"I gave them their chance at Palpatine _because_ I wanted you away." Han hung doggedly in there, refusing to let this go. Not wanting an argument, but not willing to let the kid keep on whipping up his own anger with carefully constructed fabrications when he must know the truth—or if he didn't, he had the means to know, in an instant: "C'mon, just look into my head. Look into my head and you'll know."

Kid didn't lift his gaze or tilt his own head in that particular way that Han remembered so well…wouldn't. And they both knew why. Han sighed. "It's been easier to stay angry about it, I guess. Maybe it was all that kept you going for a while. But that isn't the way it was, you know me better than that."

Luke looked to him…and it was the gaze of someone looking at a stranger. "I really don't. I thought I did. Stupid, I know, but I thought I did. Turns out I was wrong." He had to pause, to drag a labored breath in. "You know, I've been waiting since I woke for you to come in here. Wondering what I'd say when you did…what I'd do. To tell the truth, I was kinda worried I might turn your face inside-out, or something. But you know what…I'm done with this, Han. It takes all my energy just to stay alive, these days. Takes all I've got, just to open my eyes and face another day. You do what you want, think what you want, validate what you want. Makes no difference. Just…do it somewhere else. I don't want you here."

.

.

.

.

Stood quietly in the darkened observation room five levels up, Mon watched the holo image which transmitted the conversation from the secure medicenter suite in which Luke Antilles—Luke Skywalker—sat. Solo was a link to the boy's past, a familiar face with whom she had hoped he would feel both more at ease, and more willing to open up to. And both of those, she had hoped, would make him more reachable. More amenable.

He kept his head down, though; wouldn't even meet Solo's eye.

" _You mean the whole, 'You killed the man I'd sworn to protect, and helped to rip the Empire that we both vowed an oath to serve, to shreds' thing…you mean that, right?"_

" _Well, I see it a little differently, but yeah, all that."_

The door behind her slid open, letting a wide slice of light into the room as General Cracken entered, face solemn. He nodded briefly to her, then looked to the holo image.

" _You didn't do anything that others hadn't already done to me. Palpatine, Vader, you… You all did the same."_

"At least he's talking," Mon said quietly.

Cracken said nothing, eyes on the image as the conversation continued in stifled exchanges, Antilles trying so hard to remain detached from what was patently an emotive subject.

" _Point is, you stepped into my life and took over, like it was your right. And it wasn't."_

"I would be more comfortable if he was transferred to another ship, now he's stable," Cracken murmured diplomatically. "An active Destroyer with all-military personnel rather than _Home One_ , which has a high concentration of executive staff and leadership onboard. We can still keep his identity limited to a need-to-know basis."

Mon nodded slightly in assent. "Leia would need to go with him, to exert control, if necessary."

" _I was trying to help you."_

" _I didn't ask for your help."_

"You're sure that she can?"

Mon shrugged slightly. "I believe that there's no-one else who even comes close. As to whether they're equal…"

Cracken's permanent worried frown deepened. "She doesn't know?"

"Apparently he keeps his abilities very much under wraps. But from what both Master Kenobi and Leia sensed in their previous meetings with him on Coruscant, I understand he's exceptional, even for a Sith. Given his heritage, that's hardly surprising."

"Master Kenobi once said to me that Leia's abilities were unique among her peers."

Mon smiled sadly, eyes on the injured youth in the holo-image. "Perhaps not quite as unique as we'd hoped. When we learned of Luke's survival Master Kenobi told me that Leia's empathic abilities were extraordinary…but that Luke's strengths even as a young child had centered on the physical, the martial. Their talents may be equal, but in different spheres."

"So what you're saying is, she might not be able to control him."

"You assume she would allow it to devolve into a fight."

"He's a Sith," Cracken said tightly. "I think it's reasonable to assume that he'll push for that, sooner or later."

"You're overlooking one thing, Airen," Mon said firmly. "When Leia found him, it was because he was running from the Empire. And they were pursuing him. Aggressively."

Cracken shook his head. "You said yourself that he won't answer any questions about them. Does that sound like someone wanting to leave their past behind?"

"… _you know what…I'm done with this, Han. It takes all my energy just to stay alive, these days. Takes all I've got, just to open my eyes and face another day."_

Mon sighed. "I don't think even he knows what he wants right now."

"And you think that's an opportunity?"

Mon tried a smile. "They say you only regret the things in life which you didn't try for."

Cracken loosed a brief, dry twitch of his lip. "Then you have little to regret, Mon. I'd hate to be the one who advised you to change that now." He straightened. "With your permission, I'll make the arrangements to move him to a more secure vessel."

"Please do. And Airen…" Mon smiled just slightly. "Please remember—at present, Luke Antilles remains our guest."

.

.

.

.

.

.

They moved to the _Kathol's Pride_ three days after Luke had first woken—the first reasonable opportunity they'd had to move him. Leia suspected that it had been Cracken's doing to move Luke away from _Home One_ , but had no real argument with it, save that the _Pride_ , having once been an Imperial Star Destroyer, may hold uneasy reminders of a fading past. Then again, it may actually set him more at ease. Even that, she couldn't guess at.

One person it didn't set at ease was Hollis, Captain of the _Pride,_ who was stood in the corridor outside one of his own ship's more isolated secondary overflow medicenters specially opened up for this, his eyes on the door behind which the new guest had been ensconced, still unconscious from the trip over.

"You're telling me I have a John Doe onboard my Destroyer, and I'm not to ask any questions?"

Leia glanced down, keeping her voice quiet both to calm the situation and in consideration of her sleeping brother. "The orders come directly from the Council, Captain Hollis."

He glanced down to the automemo he held, on which admission orders had been transferred across with their _guest_. "And I could live with that just fine, if our _passenger_ here hadn't arrived with a full squad of Special Ops troopers. You can see why that might make me uneasy, right? Particularly when they're arranging shifts outside one of our medicenters, and not our detention center."

"Luke isn't a prisoner, Captain."

"Then tell me why you need a watch detail onboard an Alliance ship?"

Hollis' sense was a mix of anger that he was patently being kept out of the loop, and willingness to give her a chance to explain. To his left Commander Eckton looked equally unsure, though Lieutenant Commander Kori, who stood a step behind her seniors, was quietly fuming.

Leia sighed, silently cursing General Cracken's unthinking command to assign security staff to a man who had just been carried onboard unconscious, and on a medical gurney. Gesturing with her hand, she indicated for Hollis to follow her into the medicenter, separating him off from his staff.

They entered the outer chamber, occupied only by two guards who stood, pole-faced, to either side of the inner entrance they'd just passed through.

Leia came to a stop halfway across the room and took a subtle step across to cut off any entry to the medical suite beyond, where Hollis' eyes still focused. "I can explain…partly."

"I hope so, Jedi Skywalker. I'm pretty sure you can appreciate my frustration, here." His words were conciliatory, but with an edge. Her back to the medi-bay door, Leia searched for the right words. She didn't want this to set off on the wrong foot, but she had to tread carefully if she was to smooth the waters without deception.

"What I tell you now can go no further. This is priority one—classified by Mon Mothma." She hesitated, still unsure how to mellow the truth. "He's…the man in your medicenter is Force sensitive."

A familiar voice from behind her made her jump. "Come on now, Leia, I thought Jedi stood for truth and justice and all that other banthaspit. So why don't we get it all out in the open…I'm not a Force-sensitive, I'm a Sith."

She felt her heart sink as she turned about; so much for keeping a lid on it. "Luke…"

He was stood in the doorway, wearing only the blue flimsyplast medical pants they'd given him, long enough to crease at his ankles, emphasizing his youth. Slung over his shoulders without really hiding his malnourished frame, was the blanket from his bed. Theoretically he wasn't supposed to wake from the shot for another five hours. She'd figured that would probably have given them two… Seemed not.

"An outstanding one, actually." His glassy eyes centered on the two armed guards by the far door which led out of the medicenter, and he regarded them with undisguised appraisal as he continued. "Certainly good enough to walk off of this ship, if I want to. Probably good enough to take it with me…on a better day, you understand."

She could only hope that Hollis would see the hunched, patently frail youth before them, and not the grit that shone from those narrowed eyes, daring her to challenge him.

And something else was there…something else entirely. Leia studied him, aware through the Force that he wasn't nearly as antagonistic as he was trying so hard to appear. He was actually _nervous_ …

And why wouldn't he be? He'd woken on an unknown Rebel Destroyer, weak and exhausted, with limited vision, no weapon, and no backup, surrounded by those whom he'd been taught were his mortal enemy.

Quite suddenly, she realized that she needed to reassure Luke as much as her fellow Rebels. Yes, he was bristling right now, but it was only because he was unsure. "You're not a Sith, not any more. If you were a Sith, you wouldn't be just standing here right now."

"I like to think of it as getting my breath back," he said coolly.

And he was—he undeniably was. There was a true sense of a coiled spring; of someone who could tip spectacularly in either direction in the very next moment. He stared, head tilted, eyes hooded.

Leia licked dry lips, very much aware of the reassuring weight of the lightsaber hanging from her belt—and immediately ordered her thoughts away from it, trying hard to calculate the path to take, here. Did she attempt to apply pressure—order him to back down, as he was doubtless used to—or did she try to talk him down? Because to date, that hadn't gone so well...but then again, he was still here.

She had to do something, she knew that; could both see and sense him winding tighter…

"Well now that you have it, what are you going to do? Are you going to let us help you…or are you going to take a swing at me?"

"I would but…" He made a show of patting against the hips of the creased medical pants he wore. "I seem to be short of a viable weapon."

"Then here." She stepped forward without hesitation, eliciting a brief, nervous gasp from Hollis as she tugged her saber hilt free and held it out to him. "Have mine…here, take it."

If he needed it to feel secure, then she could do that.

He stared down at it as Leia held it palm-up between loose fingers. After a few seconds his head tilted further and he let out a low, "Ohhh…don't do that. Seriously."

She let her hand drop, but slowly. "If you were a Sith, you wouldn't have been running from the Empire, either."

"I wasn't running." His rasping dismissal had lost none of its challenge, though Leia noted that his hand had already lifted to rest against the door jamb to help support his weight. And his breath was coming harder, the strain of simply standing already taking its toll. His eyes flicked back to Hollis and the two soldiers behind her, and Leia realized that his belligerence was there, not at her.

She turned quickly. "Could we…I'd like to speak to Luke alone, please."

His wary gaze flicking between herself and Luke, Hollis was still savvy enough to recognize that here was something on a different level than the day to day running of a Destroyer, and so he turned slowly about and left, the two soldiers filing from the room behind him. It wasn't exactly the introduction she'd been hoping for on either side, but she knew she could trust Hollis to maintain the priority one classification of his patently unwanted passenger. What she was less sure of, was if she could stop Luke himself from sabotaging his own presence here.

She turned back to see that he'd slumped a few inches further, and his scowl now seemed far more an attempt to clear his impaired vision than a challenge. Still, he remained on the defensive.

"I've already said I'm not having some kind of life-changing epiphany. I hate to disappoint you."

"I'm not disappointed."

"Give it a while," he husked dryly, glancing aside. "I generally get most people that way, eventually."

He was visibly failing now, hand raising unthinkingly to his ribs as he struggled to breathe.

"You need to sit down," Leia said, ignoring his claim entirely.

His chest was heaving, breathing labored as he glanced about the outer room. There were two comfortable chairs to the far side of the outer room Leia was stood in, and he squinted at them for a second in judgment, then turned to retreat to the far closer bed in the medi-bay behind him.

Following, Leia resisted the desire to reach out and steady him as he dropped onto the bed but refused to lie back, keeping his bare feet hanging over its edge, every breath raw.

"I wasn't running. I…needed some time and distance. That's all."

Leia nodded. "Then take it here."

His head lifted. "And where exactly _is_ here? 'Cos this isn't the medicenter I went to sleep in last night, is it?"

He'd already pulled the catheter from his vein, Leia noticed. They wouldn't get any further chances to sneak any medication past him that way.

"You're onboard the _Kathol's Pride_." There was little point in hiding the fact; he could pull it within minutes from the thoughts of anyone who got close enough.

He straightened a fraction. "The _Relentless_?"

For a second her thoughts floundered…then she remembered that _Relentless_ had been the name that this Destroyer had held when still part of the Imperial fleet. "No, the _Pride_. It's part of the Alliance fleet now."

He remained silent a moment, taking this in. "Is Han here?"

"Yes. Do you want to speak to him?"

"No."

He was still refusing to speak to Han after that meeting onboard _Home One_ , Leia knew—and that had barely been civil.

"Is there anyone you want to send a message to," she tried instead. "Anyone you need to contact? We can't let you reveal your location, but—"

"No, no-one."

Luke, you can trust—"

"No-one."

"Well then let us help you—let me help you. Get some rest, for now."

"I would, but I'm not entirely sure where I'll wake up if I close my eyes."

"Wherever it is, I'll be with you."

He stared for a long time… "I don't know why you think that would be reassuring."

"Because I won't let anything happen to you."

"Really? What about Corsin, when you pointed a corvette loaded with explosives at the ship I was onboard with Palpatine?"

"I was incoming, in a fighter, to get you out. Han had already tried, and you'd stopped him."

"We may have gotten our lines crossed when he fed me a cocktail of spice and high-end sedatives."

"He was trying to help you."

"Well maybe I'll have the opportunity to return the favor some day."

She almost got pulled in—almost picked up the argument—then recalled her own observation from minutes before, and stepped back; stepped down.

"You're tired, and you're irritable—"

"No, I'm always like this."

Leia cracked a brief, smothered smile at his words, and he hesitated as if hearing them himself, then glanced away so that he didn't do the same, as she nodded wryly.

"I'll bet you are, Luke Sk…Luke Antilles."

.

Her brother, right here. Yes, he was wary and he was hostile and he was confrontational, but how would she have reacted if the situation had been reversed and she had been trapped, helpless, onboard an Imperial Star Destroyer?

Actions, they said, spoke louder than words. And her brother, her prickly, defiant, antagonistic brother, was right here.

.

.

.

.

.


	20. Chapter 20

.

.

 **CHAPTER TWENTY**

.

.

.

Han walked the empty loop corridor down to the overflow medicenter, set in some obscure section off to one side at the very base of the command tower. The entire floor had been cleared of occupants, and the turbolifts set to bypass it entirely without a specific security code, changed daily. He wasn't sure what they thought that'd do to slow the kid down if he decided to leave, but then again, he was pretty sure that putting him in the onboard detention level would have been like a red flag to a torro, so he could see the logic in their choice.

Nodding at the two guards who had found a couple of chairs and now sat in the corridor outside the medicenter, he keyed the passcode and entered the central bay. Luke's room was, of course, the only one out of the eight within this hub that was occupied, its inner door shut but not locked.

He paused at the door to the kid's bay, and mentally braced…then hit the release and leaned forward a fraction. "Hey. Can I come in?"

Kid was sat upright in the chair beside his bed, eyes hooded and wary. The fluids drip was gone—mostly because he didn't trust anyone here enough to be willing to have a cannula in his vein any more—and the tap which had been draining his lungs had been removed a day earlier. The oxygen feed remained hooked across his ears—or it had. As Han entered the room, he saw Luke fumble it away and drop it down the side of the upright chair he sat in.

"It's your ship." Kid's voice still sounded painfully raw. "Apparently theft of military property doesn't count in that alternative constitution your friends here have drawn up. And whilst we're on the subject, where's my freighter?"

"Seriously, you want that hunk of junk back? It nearly got you killed."

"I'm still here. Where's my ship?"

Han shook his head; he'd forgotten how intractable the kid could be. "I have no idea where it is—still on _Home One_ , more than likely."

"I want it back."

"It barely flies."

"Are you gonna give my ship back to me or not?"

"Fine. I'll get your own personal deathtrap sent over. Happy?" He brought his hands up before him. "Don't answer that. And get the damn air tube from the side of your chair. Your lips are turning blue."

"I don't need it."

"Your lips," Han repeated slowly, "are turning _blue_."

"Screw you." There was a fraction of amusement in the kid's voice despite his words, Han's straight-out comment breaking Luke's brooding mood just slightly, as they often seemed to do.

He tried another. "You can turn any conversation into an argument in under one minute, you know that?" Kid kept his head down, but Han knew him too well, and shook his own head wryly. "You do, don't you. You're secretly proud of it—admit it."

Luke glanced to make the briefest eye contact. "You seem immune."

"Hey, it took me literally years of practice to build up this kind of resistance." He walked to lean his hips against the bed now that the tension had dropped a notch, folding his arms and crossing his booted ankles as he studied the kid, taking in the difficulty with which his chest labored to rise, and the slight tremor in his hands, pressed against the chair arms to hide that very fact. "So how you feelin'?"

"Fine."

"Yeah? You don't look it."

"Thanks. Are you here for a reason, or is it just to bolster my morale?"

"Just a social call," Han shrugged.

Luke glanced sideways at him, those white-hazed lenses over dark-dyed eyes disbelieving. With most people Han would have shot the breeze a little, beaten about the bush before he got to the point. With Luke, there seemed little point.

"And…" he added, "to ask about your promotion to Lieutenant General URL."

The kid's chin twitched, a million shields slamming into place. "Where did you hear that?"

"Intel pulled it in last night, from Imperial inter-ship chatter—they've got a task force at Rishi, lookin' to try to pick up your trail. I only know because…well, anyway. That's quite a leap from Commander. Especially for someone who's on the run, with Star Destroyers chasing him."

"You _only know because…well, anyway_ ," Luke repeated, halfway between weary and amused. "You know, I've missed your half-assed avoidances when you've dropped the ball. Never get a job in Intel."

"I don't intend to," Han said. "And you're skippin' over the point, here. How'd'you get the promotion? Who gave it to you?"

"Someone with very poor judgment, clearly," Luke glanced away, effecting the bored cynicism he always used when avoiding something. A brief tremor seized his body, tensing his muscles, though he tried to hide it. "Who gave you my file last night and asked you to try to wheedle it out of me?"

"Are we takin' turns?"

"You tell me, this is your interrogation."

Han shook his head. "Nobody's interrogating anybody. I'm just asking. URL—Unrestricted Line Officer—that's serious stuff, Luke. That's carte-blanche authorization to step in and take command of anything from task forces and special warfare groups to full-force fleets. I don't think there's even anyone left in the Empire who can grant that kind of commission any more, much less make it stick."

The kid looked down. "I'm not gonna tell you who's in command now, if that's what you're dancing around, here. I've already stated my terms; I'm not here as a collaborator or a conspirator. I'm a renegade, not a convert. If they can't live with that then fine, I'll leave as soon as you give me back my freighter."

Han sighed. "Hey, it's me; I don't care what the brass want. I just want to know…I want to know what the hell you did, that they gave it to you."

For a moment Luke fell to pensive silence, before reaching a hand up to rub the tips of his shaking fingers across his temples. "Nothing new," he finally murmured. "They were just trying to keep me there."

"With a URL position? They _really_ wanted to keep you there."

"What can I say," Luke drawled. "I'm the life and soul of the party, didn't you know?"

"You're also the last Sith," Han said frankly. They both knew his father had held similar military entitlement.

"Worried?" Luke grinned, and for a second Han could see that teasing flash of amusement. Then just as quickly it was gone, as his face fell to neutral. "Well don't be. I'm here, not there."

"Yeah, we're just not entirely sure why."

The kid looked—actually looked Han fully in the eye, for the first time today. "…You want to know the truth? Neither am I."

Han nodded slowly. "That's a pretty good place to start, if you ask me."

"Pretty good point to walk away, too."

"To where? I'm serious. I trailed around ten steps behind you for most of the last year, I saw how you were living."

"It's none of your business any more. You opted out of any right to comment."

"I don't have much to say, anyway," Han hedged. "Except maybe ask why you chose to live like that."

"I didn't. You chose it for me, remember?"

"No, how you lived was your decision. Yours alone. You had every single choice, Luke. You're not stupid, you could have made a life somewhere and still stayed under the radar—any life. You _chose_ to live like that…what were you punishing yourself for?"

"I was a fugitive. I was AWOL from the military. I had no ID, I had no credit."

"You had accounts all over the place, you could have accessed one. You have pass-codes to all kinds'a resources."

"Traceable."

"All of it?"

"I didn't want Imperial money."

"You had your own, stuff you'd earned. Why didn't you just buy a farm on some back of beyond planet and settle down?"

Luke gave a brief, cracked laugh. "Because I'm many things, but a farmer isn't one of them."

"Just because he told you that you were a soldier, that doesn't mean that it's all you could be."

"I never said I was a soldier," Luke glanced down uneasily. " _You're_ a soldier. That's what you were trained to be, by other soldiers. I'm a killer. That's what _I_ was trained to be. You can't be near a Sith, and be safe. Nobody can."

"That why you lived that way?"

"People around me die—they just do. You know that."

"It won't be me."

"You think you're immune?"

Han shrugged. "I'm gonna die one day. Everyone does."

Oddly the kid sighed, voice quieting as he scowled at his own tightly-curled fingers. "What if they don't?"

It was Han's turn to frown, at the deep unease in Luke's murmured words. "They do. You know that now." He slowed, realizing. "Is that what you're doing? Are you…waiting for him to come back?"

Luke remained silent, folding his arms as his eyes skipped across the medi-bay floor in avoidance.

"Why the hell would you even want him to, Luke?"

Pained eyes came to meet Han's, and for a second he saw the struggle—saw the need to speak—then the kid glanced away again, wound up tighter than a drum. "I told you I'm not gonna speak about it—any of it."

"Not…" Han broke off, struggling to find the words without letting his frustration show. "Luke, all this stuff you won't speak about, this is _your life_. And it has nothing to do with betraying some dead dictator's memory, or the oath he dragged out of you or pummeled into you. The simple fact is that you can't _not_ talk about the Empire, because you've been brought up your whole life right in the center of it, and you can't ignore that, or avoid it, or think you can close it off. You can't take yourself out of that equation."

Luke remained silent, head down in thought for a long time, the slight tremors of spice withdrawal still visible to Han.

"I really can't, can I." He studied Han, thoughtful. "I don't get to change—not like you. I don't get to start again…do I?"

Han dragged his fingers through his hair, voice softening at the kid's mournful tone. "That's not what I meant, you know that."

"But it's true, isn't it? I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere but there."

"That's copishit. He's dead, Luke. He's gone, and he's not coming back. You're seventeen—seventeen! You don't even need to start again, this _is_ the start. You can be whatever you want to be."

Luke barely seemed to hear, eyes unfocused, the smallest of ironic smiles ghosting his face.

"I'm serious." Han almost shouted, leaning forward in his need to get this across. "You said once you wanted to be a pilot, right? Be one! Here!"

"I can't." Luke looked to him. "People around me die, Han."

"People died _because of him_ —because that yellow-eyed son of a Sith was so paranoid that he wouldn't let anyone near you. He had to isolate you to control you, you know that. But look around you Luke; he's not here any more."

"But this son of a Sith is."

Han could have kicked himself at his unthinking curse. "I didn't mean it like that—I didn't, you know that."

"Nobody ever does," Luke said quietly. "But they keep on saying it."

.

.

.

.

.

Mara was still mid-kata as Palpatine entered the wide, high-roofed deck emptied of everything for her sole use, her lightsaber thrumming a dark, ruby red. She had become so much faster in the last few weeks of uninterrupted practice, the skills she had learned in childhood freshly honed. He enjoyed watching her—watching all that grace and poise, the flex of muscle, the arch of her spine, the elegance of her step. Wondered, occasionally, what she would be, were she fully trained. Perhaps he should have chosen her, instead of Vader's son?

But ah, the draw of power inherent in that potent bloodline…

The saber hummed as she swung it wide about her at shoulder height, the angle perfect. But the blade…a tad too high in its tone for his taste, it's timbre indicating a fast blade, designed for use by one who had speed and reflexes…but not power—not sufficient to bring down someone of either Palpatine's or Antilles' strength. But with a different opponent…ah, then the outcome may change.

She brought the kata to an end with a nimble twist which took her weight from right foot to left then back to right again in a complete turn of direction, the blade hilt transferred between hands as it whipped about her body, staying always between herself and her imaginary opponent. Yes; most impressive.

Relaxing, she spun the saber to a brief salute position then let it drop, deactivating it as she turned to bow in acknowledgment of Palpatine's presence.

He nodded approvingly. "I believe that you are ready for you mission, child. All has been prepared; you have a new identity, papers and passage."

Anticipation flared in her sense, lighting it appealingly as Palpatine stepped forward, appreciating the sight; there was nothing quite as gratifying as true devotion. "And I have a second charge for my flawless little soldier," he added. "An ongoing one, from this point forwards."

Green eyes held his, willingness expressed without words as he continued.

"From today, you will be my savior. Even when Antilles returns, this responsibility will be yours."

"Master?"

"My clones. No matter what happens to this body, I can continue…if I can reach a clone. But to maintain Force-sensitive clones in stasis, I need each to remain within the nullifying influence of an ysalamiri…"

She nodded, understanding. Without the destruction of the ysalamiri he would be as lost as he had been before, their influence in holding back the Force barring Palpatine's ability to inhabit a new clone.

"Wherever you are and whatever you are doing, upon hearing of my demise this mission supersedes it," he said gravely. "You are to go immediately to the clones, and destroy the ysalamiri above the oldest one, enabling me to reach it."

Even with Vader's son, he'd barely been able to establish a link through the static of the dark void which enveloped one's consciousness upon the loss of a corporeal body. To hope to reach another, now that the boy was absent, was patently unachievable. Chances were that he would be able to rely on Antilles once again long before any such necessity, but it paid to be pre-prepared.

Jade nodded again, clearly interpreting his choice of her as a lack of trust in the incredibly ambitious Brie, which perhaps in part it was. He didn't disapprove of such ambition—in fact he saw much of himself in his ruthlessly proactive bedfellow—but then again, his own Master's demise had come about in trusting an ambitious advocate. Palpatine smiled; never let it be said that he had not learned from his Master's example.

"I won't let you down, master," Jade said solemnly.

"Of course not, child. Such would be unthinkable."

She hesitated…but not at his words.

"Is there…any further word on Antilles?"

If he had needed a reason to send her away before Antilles' return, then it lay hidden within the depths of her oh-so-casually uttered question.

"You have your own mission, child. There is no need to concern yourself any further with Admiral Brie's."

"If he's gone to ground somewhere in the Rim Systems he'll stay there, despite the risk of it being Rebel-held territory. He knows it will hamper Brie's ability to pursue."

Which was true—and the boy knew the Rim systems well, having laid low there for almost a year in Palpatine's absence. True to form, he'd disappeared entirely, despite every effort to locate him. A fresh bloom of ire narrowed Palpatine's lips at his advocate's actions. "He will surface of his own choice, soon enough."

And when he did, wracked by guilt at his own juvenile defiance, how much more amenable he would be.

And better still, the boy's actions—although a galling provocation—had become an opportunity. To regain control, yes, but also for Palpatine to refine his long-term strategies without those astute, ice-blue eyes logging every subtle play. The disadvantage of keeping anyone close enough that you knew their mind as well as he knew Antilles' was that, as the boy had grown and the mind that Palpatine had shaped and sharpened had come into its own, it had become clear that Antilles knew his Master equally well—every scheme and tactic. In his absence then, it was proving far easier to move necessary plans forward. Ones which had to be in place and active before the boy's return. He brought his attention back to Jade, both the cause of and the solution to the problem.

"As of today, I am reinstating the mission which I had already tasked you with, before Corsin. As previously planned, it will be your sole objective for the foreseeable future. To infiltrate the Rebels at this level requires one with very special skills, but in this you have all of the abilities that a true Sith would hold, to be able to conceal yourself from any Force sensitive."

"I withheld information from Lord Vader on a regular basis, master," Jade said confidently.

"This is not simply knowledge; it is your very essence that you must hide, at all times. The Rebel Jedi must never know that you have Force capabilities, let alone training."

"She won't."

"Once you are in position, stay dark and await my command. Do nothing that may place your identity at risk. The advantage of your presence in the viper's nest will be of use only once, and we must choose that moment with care, do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

To place Jade within the Rebellion gained him so much; in the short-term, she was removed from Palpatine's presence—and therefore from Antilles', when he returned. And in the long-term, a plan to deal with future problems was initiated—one which even Jade was as yet unaware of.

Over a year ago he had tasked her with infiltrating the Rebels to create a profile on Kenobi's padawan, whom Antilles' actions had brought to light. At the time, the fact that it was a Hand to whom he had tasked this command had been simple logic, in that the information she was sourcing would, by its nature, force her to operate close to the Rebel Jedi, and thus require the mental training that only a Hand could muster, in order to remain concealed.

Now, a year later, the fact that it had originally been tasked to Mara Jade to gain information on Leia Skywalker had gained new relevance.

Because _this_ was the art; to play any such obstacles against each other. To nudge them into conflict with as little visible interference as possible, as he had done since his first campaign to reduce the Old Republic to ash. In this instance, his goals were to remove the threat of this Rebel Jedi, without which her petty little rebellion would stall, and to regain the dedication of the advocate whom Palpatine had invested years in teaching. He _needed_ that power at his back, if he was to rebuild his Empire. And it was still there, all that he had ground into Vader's son. But in a full year of Palpatine's absence, its singular focus had become diluted by outside distractions.

Those obstacles to Antilles' renewed focus and loyalty were twofold; he had a sister whom he was either unaware of or would not admit to, and he had a lover whom he'd already once defied his own Master to be with.

The answer, then, was not only gratifying in its symmetry, but held within it the potential to close a festering weakness forever, as Amidala's death had with Anakin. The boy's lifelong problem had been in his inability to remain detached from those around him—those he harbored unnecessary feelings for. Palpatine had warned him again and again of the dangers inherent therein. What better response, then, than to play such problems against one another? How sublime a riposte.

If the boy knew the truth about his sister and had chosen not to reveal that knowledge to his Master, then Palpatine—to all intents and purposes unaware of the connection if the boy chose not to tell him—was perfectly validated in loosing his Force-trained assassin on this ongoing problem of both the trained Jedi and the Rebel insurrectionists she fought among. And if sufficient subtlety was used first to bait and then to narrow the snare to its ultimate purpose, then Palpatine's involvement in giving the final, specific order should not even be necessary. Both women were committed and lifelong soldiers on opposing sides of a grievous war; a situation could be engineered in which his green-eyed assassin would act autonomously in defense of her master, and Leia Skywalker would _re_ act out of simple self defense.

Either Jade killed Antilles' sister, thus alienating herself from Antilles forever, or his sister killed his lover, eliciting the same result. Either way, only one remained. Either way, the boy would be angry and desolate and far, far wiser of the weakness inherent in such petty emotional ties. And either way, Antilles would never be able to look the survivor in the eye again.

Therein lay the elegance of the play; manipulation was commonplace. _Machination_ was the art.

.

.

.

.

.

Alone in the early hours of the morning, listening to his own labored breathing competing with the sound of blood singing in his ears, Luke stared at the darkness of the small medi-bay room until the shadows crawled and lost cohesion.

He knew from hard experience that he must have been unconscious through the worst of his body's withdrawal, and therefore had bypassed the driving, scalding desperation and violent tremors which had twitched his body involuntarily in past clean-ups, like some macabre marionette.

But still, days later those damn tremors still took his muscles with aggravating frequency, the adrenaline which fired them tricking his brain into pointless, edgy tension which in turn made the tremors harder to control, with the whole cycle cranking up higher the more tense and aggravated he became. Beyond the obvious, his body suffered the spent emptiness of longer-term withdrawal, which contracted his stomach and made anything more exotic than water offensively overpowering.

That was the physical. The mental, he knew, lasted far longer and was far, far more insidious. Because that old knowledge whispered persistently and persuasively that he could make all this go away. Could jump-start his dim, wallowing mind and, if not actually repair his body, then at least return it to its previous, manageable state in what had to be one of the most precarious—and bizarrely unexpected—places that he'd ever wound up.

Knew that he could very easily not have to deal with any of this. Reality, memories, failures, fiascos. His wildly erratic and unstable future…he could reduce them all to nothing—nothing of import, anyway. Nothing that could touch him, any more.

All he had to do was find some spice.

Just a little.

Just a few times… Just this once.

Just fail. Just fold, one more time.

It wasn't even that—not really. It was simply knowing when to cut your losses. Common sense. Experience.

He stared at the far wall of the medi-bay, half-blind eyes squinting painfully as mind and body weaved, unable to halt either…and eventually—eventually, dragged down by exhaustion which bordered on the edge of hallucination, he slept.

But it followed him, even here.

.

Twisted in sweat-damp sheets, caught in the kind of broken, convoluted delirium that only a mind starved of spice could conjure, he dreamed…

The warped vision of his Master that had haunted him for the last year was dredged from his past to taunt him, shot through with new meaning:

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

 _He shouldn't be here, Luke knew_ _._

The knowledge screeched its rage inside his head, making him flinch in fevered sleep.

Within the fractal patterns of black-on-black, the image coalesced from shifting abstraction to absolute clarity: Palpatine, wrapped in a cloak of his own black fury which bled out into the icy void of endless space, spitting vehemence and wrath and revenge as he paced.  
Implacable fury as wide and deep and dark as the void…

But as the fractured, frigid frenzy enfolded him, making his shallow breath mist, he saw it:  
The single mote of warm amber dancing like an ember in the Darkness.

His attention wavered, seeking to place it, and by its very existence it broke the nightmare…

 _The color of her hair, as he'd twined it around his finger._

…and he settled. He smiled. He remembered.

Let the dense fractal repetitions from an atom to a galaxy merge, from acute cataclysmic visions into softly muted memories…

That stupid, barely-lit little maintenance hatch that they used to cram themselves into, blankets on the floor, strewn with the litter from candy wrappers. Remembered how simple the sense of contentment had been, how absolute. The entire galaxy held at bay, shut out by a three-mil door that had no lock.

Whispered words and stifled laughs and heated bodies. Fingers trailing smooth skin, lips to flesh. The curve of her hip, the small of her back, the way she let out a gasp when his tongue trailed down from her neck…

.

And then he woke. Alone, in the dark, with hard reality cold and clammy and silent about him.

What must she think of him now, if she ever did? Was he a deserter, in her eyes—a traitor? He shook his head; she didn't even know where he was. This was just his own guilt gnawing at him.

That was the true irony of it; he didn't even need his Master any more, he could take himself apart just as brutally.

His stomach cramped abruptly, needling his body's need for spice to the front of his mind, and Luke rose, fumbling away the positive airflow which hooked over his ears and throwing it aside in annoyance as he stepped off the bed and into the fresher, to wash his face. Barely awake, his control over the tremors which occasionally gripped him was less, making his cupped hands twitch as he tried to bring water to his face.

It didn't really matter what she thought of him. He'd long ago made an art of not caring what anyone thought, schooled by his Master's constant derision. What mattered was that in his absence, she was safe. Straightening, he stared at his reflection in the small mirror, his vision still flushed through with a milky haze and floating spots. Another shudder grated through his body, turning his stomach and tensing his shoulders as he leaned forwards in an attempt to focus, aware that his skin was waxen and his eyes rimmed by shadows so deep they looked like bruises. It was just the spice—or lack of. Stupid, anyway—to put a mirror in a medi-bay. Who wanted to see how bad they looked?

He couldn't make out his eye color, though they still looked dark. His hair, though, must be lightening at its roots by now. He leaned closer, fingering it though, the memory coming unbidden of when she'd asked him when the black would fade—then straightened quickly, ordering himself to put her from his mind.

It had only ever been a momentary aberration, anyway. Something that could never be. What had possessed him to think for even a moment that it could? Already beginning to struggle for breath without the oxygen feed, he leaned against the tiny fresher's sink unit, head falling forward, entire body shaking; spice withdrawal.

A brief, dry smile twitched his lip as he glanced about him; and he'd worried that it would end spectacularly badly for _her_. Hadn't done himself any favors, either.

"Idiot," he growled with feeling at his reflection. "What the hell are you doing here, you complete and utter—"

He spun about, senses finally overcoming tiredness and misery.

Leia was in the medi-center, practically at the door to his room. She knocked a moment later, and for a second he froze…then let out a breath, muttering to himself as he walked from the fresher. "What, you hoping she might think you're out?"

"Luke?"

Her voice was uncertain—had she heard him? Great, now she'd heard him talking to himself.

"What?" He didn't hide his irritation.

"Can I come in?"

"It's your ship," He pulled on a gown as he leaned on the edge of the bed—standing for more than a minute or so was still beyond him.

The door slid open, allowing a wide band of light to flood the room, which made him flinch, head already aching.

"I was…" she paused, as if tiptoeing around him—good. "My shift just finished and I was heading up to the mess hall four storeys away to get some supper and…you were upset."

He rubbed across his forehead, too tired for this. The twitch in his muscles, triggered by withdrawal, made him intolerant. "I'm fine. Goodnight."

She straightened slightly. "You know, everyone here is just trying to help you."

"Yeah? I'm touched. Goodnight."

.

Pausing, Leia stared at her brother, wondering at the cause of his ire this time. Despite her picking up on his unease four storeys away, the reason remained tightly locked beneath layers of dense shields; more by the moment. He'd seemed, when she'd entered the medi-center, mad at himself more than anything else. Now, instantly, it had transferred to her. "You keep on pushing us back…but you came to us."

He sighed, looking down. "No, I came _across_ you."

"You took an Imperial Star Destroyer into Rebel-held space. You wanted us to find you."

"I wanted you to find the Star Destroyer I'd travelled on, that's all—and not you personally, just any Rebel Destroyer. I knew that the moment I jumped ship they'd come after me, and it's pretty damn hard to dissuade an entire Star Destroyer to just fly away…unless it happens to be outside of its jurisdiction in Rebel-held space, and the local law enforcement show up. Then they'd have to withdraw."

Leia stared, as the wider implications of this settled in; that he hadn't been searching for her at all—that this had been, as Mon had hypothesized, nothing more than chance. She shook her head in denial. "If you wanted to leave, why didn't you just take one of the long-range scoutships in your Star Destroyer's hold? You could have launched and gone to lightspeed within minutes. Why come all the way to Rishi, in Rebel-held territory?"

"I didn't _own_ any of the ships in the Star Destroyer's hold." He glanced meaningfully at her, clearly still irked that he was travelling on an ex-Imperial Star Destroyer. "I _owned_ a ship on Rishi."

It was almost— _almost_ logical. She stared, waiting…and he looked down with an exasperated sigh.

"I don't have a lot that's mine, alright?" A brief tremor shook him and he twitched his head in irritation. "I sat through nine months of long nights at stained sabacc tables in filthy backroom gambling dens to be able to put the stake down and walk away with that freighter. It wasn't chance that I won—I earned it. It's mine. It's _all_ that's mine."

Leia leaned back against the wall. "So you came to get the one thing that you owned, that was nothing to do with the Empire."

"Because it was logical—untraceable."

"Because you wanted to start again—completely."

"I've told you before, don't put faith in me. You'll be disappointed."

"On Rishi, you said that the Empire had been holding you by force."

"I don't remember what I said."

"You had a tracker on you…you said it must have been injected when you were caught by them. _When you were caught_ ," Leia repeated.

He remained silent, simply looking at her, expression neutral, arms crossed before his laboring chest.

"I just want to understand what happened," Leia finally tried. "You don't have to tell me everything, just… You left the Empire, after Corsin. I know that. Then on Rishi, you all but admitted that the Empire had chased you down and locked you up. That they held you _by force_. But now you're defending them?"

"The situation was…complicated."

"That doesn't excuse it."

"No? And what excused Corsin? Because correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you and Han have something very similar planned, when he drugged me and loaded me into a shuttle?"

"To get you away from Palpatine!"

"Really?" Luke grated dryly. "Because it's interesting that the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that getting me away from Palpatine _at that precise moment_ also happened to mean that I couldn't head off the Rebel attack."

"Luke…" She paused, then shook her head tiredly. "It was the first opportunity we'd had to get to you. And you couldn't have done anything about the attack—how could you?"

"I could have walked onto the bridge of the _Conqueror_ and ordered it to break its link to the drydock and jump to hyperspace."

"Big ship engines are routinely inactive on a drydock mooring, you would never have gotten them to speed in time," she rationalized.

"Then I could have used Command Overrides on the _Relentless_ in the outer defense ring, to bring its main engines to full power and have it ram your shipfull of explosives head-on, to force it off-course…or I could have just programmed in a lightspeed jump on the _Relentless_ which would have taken it through the same space that the _Ram_ inhabited—blown them both to all hells before it ever got near Palpatine onboard the _Conqueror_. I'm pretty damn sure your precious _Ram_ wouldn't have reached him then. Or I could have simply escorted Palpatine to a shuttle and flown him out of there myself. But oh, that's right—you'd just _happened_ to have chosen that precise moment to load me up with enough spice to drop a Wookiee." His tensing shoulders triggered another bout of body-wide shivers and he let out a grunt of frustration, looking quickly aside.

"I realize that you disagree with our actions, but—"

" _Disagree with your actions?_ You murdered the legitimate Head of State because you opposed his political stance, incidentally killing eight Star Destroyer's worth of crew in the explosion, just to get to him. That brings your whiter-than-white Rebellion's total of Imperials cut down in the two months leading up to that point to…let's say over one and a quarter million—conservative estimate. That's a pretty damning figure for what _claims_ to be a political group."

"You're distorting the facts."

"Did I get my figures wrong? But hey, what's a few hundred thousand either way, when we're talking into the millions, right?"

"We're at war. It's regrettable and messy and—"

"You know how many confirmed Rebel insurgents we executed in that same period under official, legally recognized and authorized statutes? I confess, I don't have the actual figures, but I can tell you that the monthly average was usually under two thousand."

"It isn't tit for tat, and the months you're quoting contained watershed events which changed the course of history."

He looked away, running a softly-shaking hand through his hair. "Yeah, and things are so much better now because of them, right? You've taken apart a galaxy-uniting system of law and the leadership which maintained it and any kind of order, and instead instigated system-spanning resistance to the legitimate government across half the Rim systems, as you push us all towards another civil war. And for what? So that a political party that killed over a million people in just a few months can push for power to enforce its _own_ rules of law? Yeah, that sounds like a respectable New Order. That sounds a great alternative."

"We're fighting for freedom and individual, inalienable rights…and yes, sometimes they have to be fought for. Ask people—ask them what they're fighting for. It's not for us, not to put us in power. It's for their own rights, their way of life—the rights of their children not to be…" she broke off, aware that he was once again trying to distance her—and succeeding. "Anyway, I'm not here to argue politics or my loyalties—"

"Oh that's convenient."

"And I know that facts can be distorted on both sides. But you can't tell me that you believe the Empire was right. If you did, you would have returned to them immediately after Palpatine's death."

He glanced down, seemingly having no comeback.

"Luke, I understand that you're angry," Leia softened her voice. "I _understand_. But that's not between us, can you see that? What you're arguing about, it's not between _us_. If you let that come between us then we can never mend the rift, because it's as big as the galaxy itself."

He scowled, eyes still down. "I told you not to come looking for me."

"You sent me a message," she said gently. "You knew when you did it, that I would. If I knew you were alive, I would _always_ come looking for you. You're my brother."

He sighed, shaking his head slightly. "I have no idea what that even means…where we go from here."

She straightened, pushing off from the wall. "Neither do I. But I want to find out…and I want you to find out with me."

He was still shaking his head without looking up. "I told you—don't place your faith in me. I'm…nothing you think I am, and I'm nothing you want me to be."

"Are you what you want to be?" she asked gently.

"Is anybody?" He let out a low sigh, looking to end the conversation. "I'm tired."

Leia nodded, willing to leave it there. "Get some rest."

She'd almost reached the door before he spoke again, voice quiet.

"Are you…? What you want to be?"

Leia half-turned. "I'm proud of what I am. Grateful to the man who taught me. I mourn his loss and his guidance, and I miss his presence in my life every single day. Can you truly say that of your Master?"

He stared at her for long seconds….then looked abruptly away. "I wish I could."


	21. Chapter 21

.

.

Chapter 21 is dedicated to Hazelgee who did a badass Luke from 'Son of Suns' over at her deviantart page (Hazelgee) this month. Go check it out!

.

.

.

* * *

.

.

 **CHAPTER 21**

.

.

.

Four days after arriving onboard her target ship, Mara was sat alone in the mess hall, nursing a cup of the most overstewed caff she'd tasted in a long time. Not yet having adjusted to the time difference, she was yet again wide awake in the middle of the night in a near-empty mess hall, learning the routines of the Destroyer she'd be calling home for the next several months, at least. She hadn't bothered with more than the briefest walk-around; every Class I Imperial Star Destroyer was the same; she could pretty much pace them out from memory. Theoretically the routines should be identical too…but of course this particular Destroyer operated outside of any standard Imperial operating parameters. So she was learning anew, and the mess hall was always a good spot to mark shift rotations and differing procedures, as personnel came and went in work breaks and down-time, gossiping and griping and passing endless facts in casual conversation.

Right now the hall was near empty though, the last small pockets of pilots who came and went in noisy, bright flight-suited drifts as their shifts started and ended, absent for the moment. A lone woman walked in, arms clasped about her regulation jacket, multi-pocketed combat pants crushed and creased into a pair of the loosely slouched shearling boots which pilots wore for cold-weather flying. Had she been on any other Star Destroyer her frayed, makeshift attire would have singled her out instantly. Here, on a Destroyer which had been stolen and pressed into service by the seditious Rebel Alliance, individual items of clothing or personal sidearms seemed commonplace, and so she fitted right in…almost.

But the weapon which hung from the belt at her waist, half-hidden by her loose, oversized jacket, set the woman apart, even here. She walked to the drinks station and poured herself a hot drink, then glanced about the room for the first time.

Mara stiffened and glared down at her mug, but the woman walked over anyway.

"You look about as happy as I feel, right now."

"Just tired," Mara said brusquely.

"Welcome to the Alliance," the woman replied with dry humor.

She sat opposite Mara without asking, and Mara briefly considered drinking the scalding caff in the cup her fingers were wrapped around for warmth, then beating a hasty retreat. Her mission was to integrate and observe, to melt into the background—not interact with the one person who could realistically expose her. But to simply leave now would be more suspicious than brazening this out, and the fact was that sooner or later, her ability to shield herself effectively would come under test… so it may as well be now.

With every possible mental shield in place and reciting to herself that the Sith Master who had taught her had hidden for decades in plain sight of the very best of the Jedi, she lifted her head and twitched her lip briefly. "Mica Tasseca."

"Leia," the woman said with a tired smile, reflecting the late hour. Large, dark eyes held on Mara for an uncomfortably long time, until Mara glanced away and took a sip of her over-hot drink to break the moment…and the other woman did the same, settling. "So I guess you transferred over from the _Koha_ with the others?"

"Yeah, but I'd only been onboard for a week…I'm new—in the Alliance, I mean. I'm a technician; flight deck."

"Oh, you'll be kept busy, I'm afraid. We never have enough flight-techs. I'm amazed you have the energy to be up now."

Mara shrugged, eyes dropping to her mug again. "Things running through my mind, I guess."

The woman—Leia—let her head tilt in a half-shrug. "It's…hard, to exchange everything you know for everything you believe in, even when it's the right thing to do. Hard to walk away. Brave."

Something in the woman's tone made Mara stare from the corner of her eye, aware that she was speaking at least partly to herself.

"It was easy for me," Leia continued. "I was just eleven when I came here. But my…I have a friend who's just arrived, like you. I was just speaking to him and—" She stared at Mara, suddenly intensely interested. "Do you have doubts? Do you think you might have made the wrong decision?"

Mara hesitated, taken aback by the intrusive nature of the question, and Leia glanced quickly down. "Sorry—sorry. My friend…he does, and...it's playing on my mind, you know? He came here— well, I don't know if he came here by choice or not. Maybe it wasn't a conscious choice, but he came. Now…I think… I don't know. I don't know what he wants. I think that's because he doesn't, either."

Something in the woman's patent uncertainty—her confusion with, and concern for, another—resonated with Mara's own tamped down worries, taking her thoughts back as she lifted her hand to the cord she still wore about her neck, hidden beneath her clothes. "I used to know someone like that."

"On the _Koha_?"

"No…no, before that. I was part of the civilian tech crew on a local Imperial data base, on Teyr." Mara broke off, aware that she was giving out too much information at once. When you learned an identity verbatim, it was easy to fall into the habit of reciting it. "But yeah, I knew someone there. He—"

She cut herself off, aware that she was mixing her supplied background and the real past, so much was the latter on her mind.

Leia Skywalker frowned, the act causing fine lines between her brows. "Was he Imperial military?"

"Military?"

"You said you worked on a data base."

"Oh." She stared at her mug, mind lingering on why she'd somehow felt the need to combine Luke and all the problems that came with him, into her created past. At least it gave her backstory some depth, she supposed. So she shrugged. "Not directly, no, but he worked on the base, like I did. I thought…"

The woman frowned, voice soft. "Did he…not want to come with you when you left?"

Mara glanced up, wondering if she'd let some of her uncertainty slip through her shields—or more likely it was written all over her face. "Like you said, I don't think he knew what he wanted."

Her evasion passed unchecked, as the woman's eyes remained down, her thoughts centered inwards. "What do you do, with someone like that? How can they be completely committed to something, but aware that they're wrong, at the same time? Is it wrong of me, to want to influence that? Do I have that right?"

"I guess they have to…get there on their own."

"But if you knew—if you _knew_ which path they should choose…would you try to influence them?"

Mara stared, eyes losing focus, her thoughts on Luke's disappearance rather than the petty indecision of some half-baked moderate who this woman felt the need to drag down into insurrection with her.

All Luke had to do was come back—return from wherever the hell he'd gone to ground this time, and all lapses would be forgiven. All he had to do was return voluntarily, and he would be the advocate, the principal ally, the champion once again. And if he was, they could be together—they _could_ , somehow.

She felt a painful pang of longing—and oddly, for a second within that, an echo of the brief brooding flare in the Force that she'd come to recognize as Luke…

The door to the far side of the mess slid back and a group of pilots entered in a rush of noise, animated and energetic, and both women glanced, their individual trains of thought interrupted. Abruptly Mara stood, drinking the scalding caff in one and putting the mug quickly down.

"I should…I need to be somewhere." She walked quickly away, aware of Leia Skywalker's puzzled eyes on her.

She should have been pleased, that the test had been successful. That she'd been able to sit in close proximity to a Jedi—actually talk with her—and remain cloaked, her abilities and goals hidden…

Why, then, did it feel so dismal, disillusionment knotting her stomach and clenching within her chest?

.

.

.

.

.

"Hey, how ya doin?"

Hitting the light panel as he entered, Han walked into the inner room of the medibay in a rush of noise and energy, purposely, offensively awake. "Dinner."

Still in his bed Luke flinched back, arm raising to cover his eyes. Kid's hands were still trembling intermittently, though his body-wide shakes had faded—a good thing, since they seemed to get him increasingly wound up, and hard experience had taught Han that the last thing you wanted in an enclosed space was a riled Sith. Still, the kid had retreated to his sick bed two days ago and risen little since, eating practically nothing. That was long enough by Han's count; time to reinstate a little normality round here.

Reaching out to the headrest, he triggered the bed riser one-handed without asking, then rested the food tray on the small side table and pushed it round as the bed lifted Luke to sitting—and already he could see the kid leaning back from the food, lip curling.

"I'm not hungry right now."

"C'mon, you didn't eat breakfast, you didn't eat yesterday. I know this isn't Coruscanti food, but hey, we caught up with you on Rishi and let me tell you, I've eaten their food. It does _not_ rank highly."

Luke pushed at the small table. "I'm fine."

"You're skin and bone."

Silence. Han leaned back slightly, letting some of his bluster drop. "You wanna tell me what's wrong, or do I keep up the cheery routine?"

"Is that what it is? I thought it was the irritating routine."

"That's just you who's easily irritated."

"No, I'm pretty sure it's you."

Ignoring the jibe, Han dropped the pile of clothes he'd been carrying bundled under his arm onto the nearby chair. "Here, I got you somethin' to wear. Rustled round to get you civvies, not a uniform. Not easy round here, I gotta tell you. Oh, and I tracked down that freighter of yours. They're flyin' it over in a few days time."

Kid glanced up, squinting. "It's flyable then?"

"You're kidding, right? No, it's coming over in a supply frigate. We'll nurse it in using tractor beams when they drop off supplies. What's up with your head?" The last he added because Luke had leaned forward to massage his temples, eyes closed.

"Headache."

"You want something for it?"

"It won't work. I need…" Luke broke to silence, shaking his head a fraction in self-censure, jaw clamping. He said nothing for a minute but remained still, as if considering.

"What? Go ahead and say it." Something in his gut—something in the kid's hesitation and reluctance—made Han call Luke's bluff, aware that Luke didn't want to actually have to admit it out loud. "You need what?"

Luke held silent, and Han tipped his head, unable to keep the challenge from his voice. "Cos last time we spoke about it, you told me that you only used the spice to keep Palpatine off your back…and I don't see him around here. I'm pretty sure he wasn't following you around the Rim worlds for the whole of last year, either, so…what do you want?"

Luke's lips narrowed to a thin line. "Screw you."

"I'm not gonna give you spice, Luke. You can barely breathe as it is."

The kid's face fell to neutral as he looked away. "Fine. I'll find it myself."

"Not on this ship you won't."

"Don't kid yourself."

"This, from Mister _I don't need spice, it's just convenient_."

"Get out."

"Nobody's gonna give you any, Luke."

"Well then get out. Wait!" he added quickly, as Han turned to leave.

Han turned instantly, moving back towards the high medical bed as he spoke. "I'll sit in here with you all day every day, you know that," he assured. "But I'm not gonna give you spice. Ever."

"I just need enough to come down."

"You can come down on the detox meds the medic's givin' you. That's what they're for."

"Yeah, and they're working great," Luke said dryly. "Can't you tell?"

"Another few days and you'll be over the shakes entirely. I've never seen you get this close to clean before. The detox meds are helpin', you know that."

"They don't stop…." Luke paused, licking his lips. "They don't stop the Force."

Han sighed, uncertain whether the vulnerability in the kid's voice was genuine or another convenient lie. He'd play either card to gain himself what he believed he needed—had done so in the past without hesitation, Han knew. "Why do you need to, any more? Leia doesn't need that crap, she doesn't need to lock it out. Why should you?"

Luke turned away, eyes narrowing. "Leia's not Sith."

Han hesitated. "…Are you?"

Kid glanced down, massaging his temples again. "Don't…"

"I'm serious."

"Remember how we parted company—you, in a shuttle, unconscious."

"I could've been in an Imperial brig. Should've been. But you didn't do that."

Luke glanced up, still shading his eyes. "How did you find Leia that day—or had you been working with her all along?"

"C'mon, you know that's not true. I spoke to her the day before, that's it. And I found her at Corsin 'cos I yanked out practically the entire innards of that damn shuttle you loaded me into at Corsin Drydock, to stop it going to lightspeed."

Kid's back straightened a little as a brief tremor shook him. "So that's how you bought the time to speak to Vader. Were…were you there at the end?"

Han nodded slowly. "I saw the _Conqueror_ blow, yeah. And Corsin Drydock…and the rest."

Luke nodded slowly, avoiding Han's eye. For a minute Han let the silence hang, but one of them had to breach the subject eventually, he supposed, and the kid wouldn't break first. "So…what happened after I told Vader?" Luke remained silent, head down. Han gave him a moment, then tried again. " 'Cos I gotta tell you, when I spoke to him—when I told him the truth—he seemed pretty…I dunno, protective, I guess."

Luke's shading of his eyes from the medicenter lights had turned into a slow massaging of his temples again, his lips pressed together in pensive silence, so Han tried once more. "Did you two find each other?"

"Oh, we found each other." Kid's jaw flexed a few times as he continued to rub his brow, then he sighed and said quietly, "We fought."

Han shrugged. "Hey, you argue with everyone all the time, he knew that. And it's not like he was generally any—"

"With lightsabers."

"Uhn."

"He didn't seem so very _protective_ then," Luke said, dry words belying the tightening of his chest as his breathing visibly shallowed.

Han hesitated, not knowing what he could possibly say in that moment to make this whole mess any easier. "You told Leia any of this?"

"What am I supposed to say? 'Oh incidentally, Sis, I know that Kenobi died on Coruscant right after we met and I said it wasn't my fault—not directly. Well, I just thought you should also know that I had a lightsaber duel with your father the day that _he_ died, too. Again, not _directly_ my fault that he's no longer around, if it makes you feel any better. Actually it _is_ directly my fault, I just wasn't the one who actually killed him. The first, I didn't bother trying to help, and the second I actively sought out with a lightsaber in my hand—both of them, in fact—but try not to take it too personally. That's an average week for me'."

"He was your father too," Han said quietly, not having missed the kid's reference to Vader as _Leia's_ father. "And nobody's lookin' to lay blame."

Luke shook his head as he dragged his hands through his hair. "Kenobi died, Vader died, Palpatine died…though he…he—"

"Okay, you need to listen, because this is important," Han cut in. "I know the Old Man spent years drumming it into you that everything— _everything_ —is always your fault…but it's not. It's really not. You're not responsible for what happened—any of it. People made their own choices, their own decisions, and you were the one left tryin' to make some kind of sense of it all." He paused in consideration of that…then straightened slightly. "And I'm sorry. Maybe I did take things into my own hands when I fed you the drugs—"

Luke glanced up, voice laconic. "D'you think?"

"Quiet, I'm makin' an apology here. Maybe I crossed the line, but it was…I just couldn't watch you tear yourself apart any more. You were in pieces back then—you know that, right?"

Kid's gaze dropped again. "I know. I'm not stupid."

Han stared, surprised at the admission. "Well then why are you givin' me such a hard time?"

"Because…" Luke trailed off to reticent silence…

"Because I was the only one there you trusted, wasn't I?" Han said, in dawning realization. "Out of everyone,I was the only one who actually betrayed you, because I was the single person there who you actually _trusted._ Indo always had his own motives, you knew that. And Palpatine lived by his, so sending you after your own father probably didn't even surprise you, did it? And you didn't expect one damn thing from Vader, other than for him to act like he had his entire life, with you."

Han sighed, feeling guilt wrench within him. For a moment they both remained silent, then the kid moved uneasily, looking to dispel the moment, as ever.

"Yeah, you were an asshole."

Han lifted his head a little. "In my defense, I'd spent five hours the previous night walking you in little circles around my quarters because you'd OD'd on spice."

Kid tipped his head. "I didn't say I _wasn't_ one, I just said you were."

Han sighed deeply, suddenly needing to hear it: "So…we okay?"

"We always were, Han."

"Well how was _I_ supposed to know that?"

Kid shrugged. "You're still alive."

Han's lip twitched in amusement. "Asshole."

.

.

.

.

.

Luke walked alone down the drab gray Star Destroyer corridor, empty due to the late hour. Restless, itching within his own skin, aware of… _something_.

Han's refusal to provide him with even a small amount of spice a few days earlier had left him twitchy and uneasy. The symptoms of physical withdrawal—trembling and cramps and a dense, deep, thudding pound in his muzzy skull—were tempered by the detox medication, at least to the point that they fell in line with the more conventional injuries which made his chest feel like it was circled in a wide, constricting steel band, and rendered objects at any distance a vague slick of blurred color. But nothing curbed the one thing that truly unsettled him. It leeched into his perceptions and insinuated itself into his awareness, bringing with it the unnerving sense of a bow-tide rising to bear down against the present; the future closing in.

And he could make it go away so easily, he knew. Could push it back to the ghost of a whisper, with the right inducement.

The humiliating truth was that if someone had walked up to him right now—had held out their hand and said, 'Here. You're ninety-five percent of the way clear, but here, if you really want spice so badly that you're willing to throw all that away, then take it,' …he would have snatched their hand off. Not a single breath, not even a heartbeat in consideration. He would have thrown everything away, days and weeks of effort as he had done so many times in the past, just for the chance, for one minute of making it stop.

And he hated himself for it. And the spice, for causing it. And the whole damn galaxy, for seeing him like this. Because at the back of his head that constant, insistent voice kept on whispering that he hated himself most of all, for not having the guts to simply lay down on the deck of that damaged freighter when he'd been given the chance; simply lay down, breathe the korfaise deep…and make it all go away for ever.

It made him itch inside his own skin. Made him sit and rock on the chair in his room whilst his mind ran involuntarily through the simple steps of getting what he needed, to dull those thoughts. Because he hadn't been lying to Han; it would be easy…even here.

So tonight he'd gone walkabout. Habit, he guessed; he'd done it a thousand times back on Coruscant, when his thoughts had started to crackle inside his own head, and he'd needed to do _something_ —anything.

Getting stir-crazy in the sterile room, he'd dressed in the clothes Han had finally given him—no boots; he didn't need boots if he was staying in the medicenter, right?—then slipped by the men on the door without effort. The powers that be had helped enormously by emptying the surrounding area of personnel, so that he'd had free rein to make his way to one of the droid repair chutes and clamber up internal accessways onto more inhabited levels. Though even then, people seemed sparse; the ship couldn't have been running on much more than a skeleton crew, if this was the norm.

After almost two weeks of recovery in the medicenter his vision had cleared sufficiently that despite the outlying corridor that he now padded down barefoot being on reduced power, up close he still saw the scuffs and scratches to its paintwork that would never have been tolerated whilst it remained in Imperial service. And his damaged lungs were healed enough to provide sufficient oxygen to keep him upright, as long as he kept the pace slow. So he'd felt confident enough to set off out on his own tonight...and bored and agitated enough that he was willing to do so, permission or no.

He'd made for an outer hull to see where they were, since the panels beneath his feet didn't have that particular vibration of a Destroyer in lightspeed. Meandered, more accurately, taking in the familiar routes and sounds, the clicks and creaks and rush of air and water and coolant which defined any ship in deep space.

But Star Destroyers…they were special. Practically all of the hours he'd racked up in space, had been inside them. From the age of eleven he'd walked these hallways; could do so blindfold, so much a part of his life were they. And this ship—this particular ship—she had rumbled beneath his feet through some of the most momentous events of his life, to date. She'd been the first Destroyer that he'd travelled on without Palpatine, aged fourteen. The Destroyer that had taken him to Carida for Special Forces training, aged fifteen. She'd been the Destroyer he'd travelled on as part of the convoy which had accompanied the _Conqueror_ and the _Devastator_ to Corsin Drydock, and the only ship to survive the Rebel attack there which had killed Palpatine, his father and Indo in a single blow.

Like him, she was a survivor. Like him, she'd limped away from Corsin bruised and battered and broken…but still here. He slowed, reaching out a hand to trail along the flat gray walls, feeling in that moment a yearning nostalgia for the past in which he'd had a place where he'd felt he belonged without question. A role to fulfill. Now, he had nothing, damned to drift aimlessly.

Even Palpatine's miraculous return had left him restless and discontent, mired in doubts where once there had been such clarity…or had there ever? He slowed further, considering. Because for all the changes that his Master had undergone…were his own greater? He wanted—he _desperately_ _wanted_ —to return to his old life, and the confidence of convictions that it represented; had been willing to overlook so much to do so. But…when it came to living with that compromise day to day, he'd found himself faltering.

Luke's eyes travelled the walls of this familiar ship, repurposed against her will and forced by circumstance to endure and adapt, and he felt in that moment more empathy with her than he had ever felt with his renewed Master. Wondered for the first time if that was because unlike his Master, who had undergone such outward transformation and yet remained fundamentally unchanged, like the ship that he once again travelled on, Luke remained exactly the same outwardly…but utterly, irrevocably changed, within.

Thinking on that he wandered aimlessly, staying away from what would be the more densely populated operational levels and keeping instead to the habitation zones… And eventually, without really meaning to, he found himself in well-known corridors, looking at a familiar door.

He shouldn't…

Hesitating, Luke pressed the entry pad to his old quarters; locked. Automatically, he keyed in the lock code which had always been active when the Destroyer had flown under an Imperial flag. The door remained resolutely closed…and something irked him, that entry to his own quarters was barred. He tried the standard security override; nullified. They must have changed the security protocols.

On impulse, he entered a hardwired deep access code…and the door slid back. Hadn't found that one, then.

He walked into his old room…and into his own past, it seemed. It was still sparsely furnished, the same military-issue desk still bolted to the floor of the main room, the same shelves bolted to the walls, still empty. A few readers scattered across the desk betrayed the fact that it was occupied, though…as did the bright cerise and turquoise throw creased haphazardly across the bed, and a curly-furred lilac cushion on the hard plasteel chair. Luke blinked and walked forward to touch it tentatively, amused at the incongruous flashes of color. Then his eyes turned upwards as he looked to the ceiling tiles, grinning.

Using the chair to step up onto the table top enabled him to reach up and push aside one of the roof tiles. Still hidden in the cavity above were a few battered spice sticks. Laughing silently to himself, he stepped down and was staring at them when the door opened and the room's present tenant entered.

She stopped dead when she saw Luke, wide eyes blinking quizzically.

He barely paused, old reflexes cutting in as he stepped back and ducked his head a fraction to keep himself small and unthreatening, arranging an embarrassed smile on his face. "Sorry—sorry, I just…I used to bunk in this room, and I came back to look. I didn't mean to…I haven't touched anything."

She looked him briefly up and down…then settled slightly, her open, trusting smile rounding her cheeks, the little extra weight that she carried suiting her. "S'alright. I've only been here a month myself. You bunked here?"

"A few times."

She nodded, taking him in, hazel eyes lingering on his civilian attire and bare feet. "You're the guy from the medicenter, aren't you?"

Luke's smile became real at her words; some things never changed. Imperial or Rebel, any fair-sized starship was still a hotbed of gossip, for want of anything else for its crew to do in off-duty hours. "That's right, yeah."

"I heard about you."

From how relaxed she was right now, her sense amicable and at ease, she clearly didn't have even half of the real story. But he held his smile and let her talk, as she flicked her sandy-brown hair to the side.

"I'm Kai, I work ground crew with the snub fighters. I just got transferred with my Flight Unit." As she spoke she dropped the still-active datapad that she'd been reading when she entered on the table—and Luke saw the schematics of a TIE fighter.

It was none of his business…but too many years of training cut in, and his desire to cleanly extricate himself transformed into the motivation to stick around.

"I'm Luke." He said it pleasantly; affably, meeting her eyes and smiling. Then he took a step around her, heading for the exit. "Sorry again, I was just…wandering, you know. Stretching my legs." His eyes alighted for a fraction of a second on the datapad and its schematics, then flicked away. Part of him kept on repeating that it was nothing he needed to know…but old habits died hard. "I'll leave you in peace. Finish my wanderings alone."

Surely that sounded just the right mix of pathetic and promising? He got as far as the door—

"You, uh," She hesitated… "You want some company? The Rogues—my flight group—are still up. We just finished our shift. I left them in the mess rooms. We could…wander over that way?"

He had his back to her, so she didn't see him grin. And he'd wiped it off entirely before he turned, keeping his voice timidly gracious and his eyes away from the image on the datapad. "Sure, a little company'd be great. I used to fly combat myself, from time to time."

.

.

It was a truly surreal sensation for Luke, to walk into a pilot's mess room onboard a Star Destroyer, and see a flare of bright orange flight suits on view instead of regulation gray or black. At the back of his head he knew that this particular Star Destroyer had been commandeered by the Rebels almost a year earlier—in fact his walk here through familiar battleship-gray corridors, had been with a chatty female flight tech' whose unlaced boots and loose hair were anything but regulation—but it was still like some spice-trip high, to see Rebel pilots sat in unruly disarray, their orange flightsuits stripped theirs to their waists, the arms tied loosely about their hips to keep them up, leaving thermal compression tops visible beneath battered jackets. They glanced up when the woman, Kai, entered—and straightened a little when Luke followed her. A new face onboard ship was always worthy of interest.

"Hey, guess what I found," Kai smiled, relaxed and carefree. "I turned up a new pilot for you guys to meet." She turned slightly, and Luke realized she'd forgotten his name, and was about to ask him in front of everyone.

He stepped quickly round her, taking the initiative and speaking quickly to stop anyone from asking his full name. "Luke—I'm Luke. Not really a full combat pilot, though, not for a while. You guys just off-duty?"

The nearest, a slight, dark-haired pilot not much older than Luke and of a similar build, reached out his hand. "Wedge Antilles."

Luke tried hard not to hesitate before he shook it, briefly. "Really—Antilles?"

"Yeah…why, d'you know me?"

"No, sorry, I was just…no. You're X-wing pilots?"

"Yeah. Kai tell you?"

"No, it was the flight suits. X-wings wear orange, right?"

Wedge nodded, eyes dropping subtly to Luke's still-bare feet, only half-covered by the creases of his over-long cargo pants, then flicking quickly back up, a tad wary now. "That's right. So...how'd you end up assigned to the _Pride_?"

"I'm not really assigned to—"

"Wedge, he's the guy from the medicenter." The proud lilt of Kai's voice for having unearthed him spoke volumes as to the amount of gossip that must have been going round, and Luke sensed the casual interest of the group raise a notch.

Given the tech readout of a TIE fighter on the datapad she'd been carrying when he met her, the feeling was mutual. He really didn't need to pursue it, of course, but he felt like he'd been vegetating for too long in the medi-bay, and his mental jitteriness in the absence of spice made what should have been an irrelevant fragment of intel worth pursuing, simply for the sport. So he shrugged in acknowledgment, curious as to how far he could push this.

The pilot to Wedge's left, straightened. "Man, we've been having bets on you! So they finally let you out the medi-bay, huh?"

"Not really. I may be a little AWOL."

"Well they had you cooped up in there long enough, I don't blame you," the pilot said wryly. "I heard you burned your lungs."

Still unable to quite disguise his rasping voice, Luke nodded. "Korfiase inhalation."

"Hn." Wedge Antilles looked to his orange-suited wingman. "That's nasty. How much did you throw up?"

"No idea. I was out for a chunk of time—a week, I think."

"Wow, you inhaled that much?" Wedge pursed his lips. "That was getting off Rishi, right? I heard they'd had problems with an Imperial Star Destroyer."

"Getting off Rishi, yeah." Luke was well aware that he was being pumped for information here, but he was willing to go along with it until his own opportunity came up, to set everyone at ease. He tried his first push.

"So why are you guys here? Kai said you'd just been transferred."

The pilot leaned back a fraction; too soon to try that then, Luke figured.

"Me?" Wedge Antilles shrugged, purposely misunderstanding. "I ran a one-man shipping company—or tried. Got ground into the dirt by levies, and this was the only place left where they'd let me fly."

Luke let the avoidance pass unchallenged, as the pilot moved the conversation on.

"You?"

"Me?" Aware that he needed to relax their attention them further if he wanted to get answers, Luke tried an easy grin. "Well, based on my exit from Rishi, I guess I've pretty much hacked off every legitimate law enforcement agency from the Core to the Rim, now. This is probably one of the few places who'd even take me onboard, any more."

"Are you gonna fly?"

Luke glanced down. "I don't think so."

Shrewd eyes scrutinized him. "You _are_ a pilot, aren't you?"

Before Luke could answer, Kai moved close beside him. "But that's not all he is…is it."

Her eyes were on Luke, and he stifled a frown. "Why, what else have you heard?"

She leaned back, pleased with herself. " _I_ heard you're the second TIE pilot who shot the Imps off our Jedi, Leia Skywalker, so she could take the shot at Yavin."

He was silent for a fraction of a second too long, making Wedge Antilles grin. "He is! Hell's teeth, Klivian was right, he's the sleeper agent!"

Luke glanced quickly around, as others to the far side of the mess hall, straightened to see what the shouting was about. "Shh, keep it down!"

The pilot leaned forward, voice an animated whisper. "You are though, aren't you?"

Luke looked back to the grinning tech'. "Who told you that, again?"

Kai glanced to Wedge Antilles, giving the game away entirely. He pursed his lips, then shrugged. "Klivian said he'd overheard Solo talking to Captain Ellis about the guy in the medicenter—something about flying with him in the past, and Yavin. Everyone knows he was one of the Yavin TIE pilots, so we put two and two together. You are, aren't you? Damnit, I owe Faskin forty credits—he _said_ the guy in the medicenter was one of our own moles who'd been undercover long-term, and I laughed in his face."

"Well…you may not have me for long, anyway."

Kai took hold of his sleeve. "Are you going back?"

Luke looked down without speaking, and it was Wedge who leaned forward, raising his voice to be heard over the amused whoops of the other pilots. "Kai, you can't ask an infiltration agent what their next mission is!"

"Oh please, who would I tell?"

Luke straightened slightly. "You just told _them_ who I was."

The group laughed aloud as Kai's cheeks and neck reddened, and Wedge rose to tap at his copilot's shoulder. "Janson, make a little room for our guest, huh? Luke—sit down. You want a drink?"

.

They talked for a while, shooting the breeze, as Han would say, the tone more settled. So much so that Luke pushed his original intent—to bring the conversation back to that technical image of a TIE fighter on Kai's datapad—to the back of his mind. It sat there though, stewing…

"So what happened on Rishi," Janson asked at last. "Had they found you out?"

"Ah, I got my freighter shot up when I was beating a hasty retreat," Luke hedged, keeping it vague and borderline-honest because they clearly knew fragments, and he didn't want to contradict or be stretching to remember, later. There was no animosity here, no testing of the water any more, but still, it was better to move the story along before questions were asked. "We took a barrage from that Star Destroyer in orbit. It was low-yield, but it did the job. Han took the helm whilst I went down to the engine room, but it blew a coolant line whilst I was in there."

Three separate pilots whistled in empathy.

"Man," Wedge intoned, "you're lucky to be walking."

"Tell that to my lungs," Luke said dryly. "You'll have to go down to the medicenter, though— feels like I coughed most of them up in there over the last few weeks."

"So…" Wes glanced down. "How are your eyes?"

Every pilot knew the dangers of inhaling korfaise—that on a good day it could end their career. On a bad one, it ended their life.

"I had a new lens in one eye. Other's still clearing."

"But they said it'll be okay?"

"Yeah. Didn't inhale enough to get nerve damage."

"Hey, you should take the FliComp!" Kai said, picking at Luke's sleeve again from where she sat to his right, possessive of her new find.

"The what?"

"FliComp; flight competence test. One of the simulators is always loaded up with it." She grinned, tilting her head. "You're obviously not going back to the Empire any time soon, with your cover blown like that. Come and fly here—put your name down for the Rogues!"

Luke stared, the situation becoming more surreal by the minute. "Uuhh…I really don't think—"

The bigger pilot, Janson, leaned back in amusement. "Oh just like that—just 'Put your name down for the Rogues'. We're the Top Guns, you know."

Kai had already hopped from her perch to link Luke's arm, taking charge "Oh pfft! You're not that special, I spent thirty-odd hours last week patching up your X-wing."

"Hey, we were running five to one in that skirmish!"

"Whatever. Come on, Luke. Wedge, fire up the flight sim."

Wedge rose, as eager as any pilot was to see a possible contender fly.

The simulators were lined up in a threesome to the very edge of a hangar bay, the first time Luke had been this far into the normal bustle of the Rebel-commandeered ship. Buried within the routine sight of a group of orange flight-suits he glanced around, unthinkingly taking in numbers and inventory; still light, even here. Undermanned, by choice or necessity; the resultant shortcomings added up to the same vulnerability.

The group stopped before the full-range flight simulators of a kind Luke hadn't seen on any Star Destroyer before, all battered and tattered but all still clearly working, the virtual screens of their external links lit but blank. Wedge stopped at the nearest, a fully enclosed cockpit set within a spherical series of screens, the entire system supported by a series of hydraulic rams which whined as they pressurized and leveled off in response to Wedge toggling the system to fire up.

"Which level do you want? Ten's basic, six is a competence pass, three's your best day ever. Level two's about how long you can survive before they atomize you."

"I dunno, I haven't flown for a year." Luke could feel the challenge coil in the pit of his stomach. "What do you normally hit?"

"I've cleared two a few times. Most days I can fly level three. With a hangover I only make level five."

Luke glanced to the flight simulator's external holo-screen on the console to the side of the simulator as it glowed into life, giving stat readouts of the last program used. From where he was stood he saw the data and images projected back to front as it loaded…but he recognized the fighter parameters which had been used last:

A TIE/LN starfighter—a standard Imperial TIE.

The screen was up for barely a second before Wedge had blanked it, and Luke was quick to glance immediately away as if he'd not seen. It tucked neatly away, though; the fact that someone here had been practicing on TIEs. Settled in his thoughts right beside the datapad that Kai had carried…

"What are your eyes like?" Wedge brought him back to the moment and Luke smiled, attention going from the beaten-up flight simulator to the holo-screen, which was now loaded with an Incom X-wing program.

"I'll be fine. The holo-screens inside will be pretty close up. I just can't focus at distance yet. I've never flown an X-wing, though."

"You want to start on six?"

"…No, put it on level three."

.

.

.

The pilots gathered round the simulator's external holo, which showed in small-scale the view from the simulator's cockpit as well as streaming data percentages down one side. For a few seconds whilst the simulated TIEs closed, the X-wing ran maneuvers, banking this way and that and running through a sequence of wide yaws and pitched dives which made the actual simulator behind them tilt and shudder. Then the TIEs were on him, and their untried pilot yanked the fighter into aggressive twists and banks which had the pneumatic rams which supported the simulator whining to throw it around fast enough to emulate flight. A few times the simulator cockpit went near vertical, nose or tail up, or dropped and rammed itself to the side in simulation of wild tactics, rattling the deck plates it was bolted to and making the few crew on deck glance over, curious at the noise.

On seeing a group of orange flight suits gathered about the simulators, they'd go on about their business; nothing new about a group of over-loud pilots.

Stood a half-step away, barely able to hear himself over the pneumatic rams firing, Janson stared. "That is some _serious_ flying. Was he attached to the 128th, or something?"

"He just said he hasn't flown in a year," Plourr murmured, eyes on the screen.

"He's also just cleared the screen in, what—less than three minutes."

"Key it up, key it up!" Kai said excitedly, watching the external holo clear of TIE's. "Drop level two on him!"

"Doesn't mean he can do it for real," Sarkli muttered.

"Oh, he can do it," Wedge grinned. "That's a natural in there—look at him go!"

A new wave of TIE's came in at speed, separating out into classic finger-four elements. Plotted simply as a pilot's point-of-view target with fuselage-incline mapping, the X-wing rotated and dropped below center to arc into a sweep which dropped distance without losing speed—and the first two TIEs were already gone, leaving the next two in the kill-zone.

Proximity alerts were audible from outside the simulator as they blared a warning that the X-wing was under fire, but it twisted down into a helix then vectored thrust to turn back on its own trajectory inside of half a second, taking it beneath its attacker as the targeting system identified a perfect line-up with a flashing prompt for its pilot to fire.

"Key it up to level two," Kai repeated.

"That _is_ level two," Wedge said flatly.

.

.

Luke pulled off the headset as the simulator settled to neutral with a slow whine, realizing he was dizzy at the burst of adrenaline that his shaky body hadn't really got the reserves to deal with, yet. Light cracked into the simulator's cockpit from behind, and he heard the voices of the pilots as hands reached in to pat his shoulders.

"Where the hell did you learn how to fly?! That was textbook and freeform rolled into one!"

"That was level two!" Kai shouted as he squeezed out of the cramped cockpit. "You cleared level two, Luke!"

"They're good snubs," he allowed of the X-wing simulator, blinking in the bright light of the bay. "Nimble. Easier to use vectored thrust in the turns. Awkward that you have to line up the whole ship to target, though, that threw me at first."

"You cleared level two!" she shouted again.

"I can do better than that against living opponents," he murmured.

You couldn't use the Force much against a machine, save to enhance your reflexes—though he wasn't about to admit that he had any such connection, anyway. In fact he probably should have dialed down his reaction times further in the simulator, Luke reflected, but what the hell. "I've been stuck planet-side, on the run, for way too long. Or locked up in one Destroyer or another. Lost my edge, without flying."

He was conscious of the pilots glancing to each other at the periphery of his vision. Aware that his words had once again confirmed their silently-held beliefs that he was some kind of sleeper agent who'd been uncovered and then injured whilst escaping, now returned to the fold. Let them think what they wanted; made his life a little easier, anyway.

Kai grinned from ear to ear as Luke stood back on solid deckplates. "You're really good! You'd get a fighter tomorrow!"

"I saw you pull a return helix in there," Wedge said. "How did you hold integrity in the turn?"

"Woah, I pulled a return helix last month!" the bigger pilot Janson said, straightening.

"Yeah, but Luke here also hit his target inside of the turn. As I remember, you missed."

Janson raised a hand. "Hey, we were nearly in atmosphere."

Wedge grinned. "You want me to paint _Nearly_ on your head-count on the side of your X-wing?"

Luke was actually starting to relax and simply enjoy the company, the close camaraderie between those present as they teased and ribbed one another, when he sensed it—the barest wisp of recognition which opened the floodgates. Practically hidden, it was no more than the flat surface of the woman he knew, but still…

He turned, all else forgotten, gaze scanning the far reaches of the vast hangar. Though he knew exactly where to look his eyes still hindered him, rendering the distance a fog of hazy, amorphous shapes…

Without thinking he started forward, ignoring the questions of the pilots as he threaded between them, eyes on the far doors which would have led to tech rooms and equipment stores. Still dizzy and breathless, he forced his pace from a slow walk to a gradual jog…

As he closed, his blurred vision picked out the vague form of a woman leaving, long amber-red hair pulled into a thick plait down the center of her back—

He broke to a run…

And another familiar presence entered by a closer set of doors, worried and furious and searching.

"Luke!"

The relief in Leia's voice brought his attention to her, and he slowed, eyes flicking one last time to the receding redhead as Leia lifted the comlink in her hand. "I've found him, he's in the main hangar. No...no, it's fine, it's all fine. No, no backup. We're coming back to the medicenter now."

.

.

.

.

.

The stony silence of their journey back to the medicenter spoke volumes, Leia knew. It didn't help that as they reached the medicenter, she noted that two new guards accompanied the first pair close to the doors, their combined presence enough to lift Luke's indignation a notch, to her searching senses.

"Don't feel too bad, boys," he murmured dryly to his original guards. "I've been end-running guys like you since I was seven."

They stared stonily ahead as Leia hustled Luke between them, their thoughts blasting out a mix of annoyance and embarrassment at having been bypassed so effortlessly by their charge.

As the door closed behind them, shutting the men out and leaving Luke and Leia alone in the main vestibule, he turned on her.

"Seriously, you were actually trying to detain me? I thought you were just keeping me out of sight. I thought the guards were to keep your people out, not me in."

"Why would you think that we needed guards to keep our own people out?"

"Why would you think that two guards could possibly keep me in?"

"Luke…" She sighed, watching Luke's expression harden as he thought on it more.

"You were actually trying to keep me locked down, weren't you? Keep me a _prisoner_."

"No, not a prisoner. But you have to understand, people are—"

"I'm out of here."

Leia hesitated. "What?"

"I'm leaving." He was already walking for the door.

Leia stepped in his path. "You can't."

"Do you _seriously_ want to start this game with me?" That surface veneer of civility peeled back to let the aggression she'd seen long ago on Coruscant show once more, as he suddenly and unexpectedly perceived himself under threat. "Because I don't think you have the equipment or the ability to hold me—do you? You know what I am, you know what Palpatine taught me. He ground that into me. You start pushing those buttons, and you know damn well that I'll do what I have to."

It was strange, in that it was almost but not quite a threat, somehow once removed and halfway between a warning and a defense _._ Halfway between panic and aggression. Was this how it worked, with him? Was that what made him so difficult to categorize? The Darkness within him was a reaction, a consequence, not a choice. Uncertainty led to hostility, panic to antagonism, fear to defensiveness…and the only way he had been taught to defend himself was with open aggression.

She lifted her hands. "No-one's trying to back you into any kind of corner." Whatever else he was, she was aware that her brother wasn't issuing an empty bluff. He remained a Sith, and she knew all too well what he was capable of, if he felt sufficiently threatened for that honed survival instinct cut in. "Where would you even go, Luke?"

"What the hell do you care? It doesn't matter where I go, what matters is that I'm not here!" His still damaged, rasping voice had taken on an edge as he straightened, tensing. "People die around me, okay? Remember that. I said it to you a long time ago, and it still holds true, believe me." His antagonism was rising, and Leia had already opened her mouth to rebuff it…then realized what he was actually saying. Because his words, not his manner, had given away just how much of this prickly front was to cover deeper emotions, an anxiety which existed at the very core of him.

She stared, aware that this was as close to genuine concern for others as he knew how to come. "You'd consider going back to them because of that? That isn't a reason to stand among the Imperial military, Luke."

"You want a reason?" He laughed as he looked down. "All I know how to do is kill people. Not really a widely-used skill, in everyday circles." He looked to her, gravely serious. "But I can do it very well. _Very_ well. On command, every time. Without flinching. So you tell me…where else do I belong?"

"You know what I hear in your voice? Regret."

"Really?"

She knew from his tone that it had been the wrong stance to take as his indignation flared, voice hardening.

"You know what I hear in yours? Denial. And maybe a little bit of desperation."

"Why do you always try to push people back?"

"I don't try. It comes very naturally."

"Then why are you getting so angry?"

"Angry… _angry_?" His head tilted in dry amusement at her choice of word. "Believe me, this isn't angry. At most I'm offended that you're actually threatening to try to hold me here…because let me tell you, that's become very old in this last year or so."

This time Leia held silent, and he stared for long seconds, lips tightly pressed together, head shaking, as if too much was racing through his thoughts. Finally he straightened a fraction, decision reached.

"I can't be here any longer." He said it simply; bluntly. "I shouldn't be."

"I don't want you to go."

It was the perfect counter.

With no reply he remained still, sense in the Force roiling. Eventually he shook his head again without speaking, unable to meet her eye. Unable to walk away.

"I don't want you to go," Leia repeated. "I don't want my _brother_ to leave. I don't want him to go back to the people who used him, simply because…because all he knows how to be, is used. I want so see who he can be without them."

He stared for long seconds in which she sensed him falter, surprise and uncertainty flashing out unchecked through the Force as if, presented with genuine concern, he had no idea—none whatsoever—of how to react…

Then he let out a brief, rasping laugh, backing up a step. "You have a hell of a line in comebacks."

"That's because I have faith."

"Don't have it in me," Luke said. "I'm serious. Sooner or later, I let everyone down. Ask Han."

"He's still in one piece, isn't he?"

"That's because of you, not me."

"Stay," she said simply. "I'll get you more freedom. You can go down to the interior stock bays, speak to the other pilots…that's what you were doing, isn't it?"

He glanced down, jaw grinding, sense wavering between unease and irritation. "I'm not…I'm not one of you. I know that, you know that…even they do, on some level."

"Will you stay?" Leia asked, cutting to the core of it.

He hesitated a long time…then turned away to walk to the entrance of his small room within the medicenter. Leia hesitated, needing rather than wanting to push it. "Will I…see you in the morning?"

He paused a second then, his back still to her, nodded once and walked into the room, letting the door slide closed between them.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Han slowed as he walked across the hangar, squinting. The battered YT freighter had been transferred over to the _Pride_ a week ago now and Luke, using his newly gained permission to move freely between his rooms in the medicenter three levels up and maintenance hangar nine—an internal workspace with no direct external link—had been working on it every minute since. Still, at least when he was working on that, he wasn't getting into trouble—any more than usual, anyway; kid seemed to be doing an awful lot of fixing up for someone who theoretically had no access to any spare parts.

Now he was sat to one side of the landing struts underneath that damn bucket of a freighter, with an assortment of damaged and dismantled heat exhaust parts laid neatly out across the floor like a tech diagram. Han laughed to himself; in fact it was probably _exactly_ like the tech diagram the kid had pulled up—it'd be just like him to have learned it by rote, in precise detail…the kinda ability that Indo had spent years grinding into him as he'd grown up.

Two off-duty pilots and a ground crew tech, all around his own age, were sat with him, and all were talking casually, as they worked. Funny…seeing him like this, in borrowed clothes that didn't quite fit, with holes in the knees and his bootlaces undone, hair wild and uncut, black at the ends but lightening now as the follicle dye faded and gave way to his natural color…he could have been any seventeen year old kid, hanging out with friends.

Yeah…this could work—this could actually work. Take the kid away from all those influences on Coruscant and he'd calm down, right? He'd find a place for himself, drop into real, normal life like any—

One of the pilots—Wedge Antilles—gave up on whatever he was trying to do to fix the part he held, and threw it half-aside, probably in judgment of how likely it was to ever work again.

Luke glanced up and his hand stretched out, palm opening—and Han's chest froze. _Don't use the Force to catch it!_

Kid realized in time, and turned the move into a patently futile attempt to lean back and grab for it, and everyone laughed, ribbing him for trying. He grinned, letting them without animosity, and Han breathed again, blowing the air for his lungs in a slow gasp.

Fact was, he never could be that _any kid, anywhere_ …could he? Every moment of every day that he was here he had to keep those shields up, guarded and aware to some degree.

Han walked forward, nodding briefly at the others without sitting. Wedge glanced up and caught his eye, and was shrewd enough to realize and stand, brushing the hangar dust from his coveralls.

"I might go grab some dinner, before all that's left in the mess hall is that indefinable goop that the Mon Cal's eat."

He nudged the second pilot, Janson, with the toe of his boot. Understanding, Janson stood, brushing down his fatigues. "Yeah, might join you."

Kai was a little slower. "Bring me something back."

"My hands'll be full," Wedge tried.

"Oh, okay, leave it then."

There was a moment's silence, before she glanced up. "What? Oh…oh! Sure, hold on." She rose quickly. "Luke, you want something?"

"No, I'm fine."

"I'll get you something." With a final glance between Luke and Han, she followed the pilots as they trailed from the hold.

"She's real subtle," Han said wryly as he moved to sit on the angled ramp beside the kid.

Luke glanced up from his work. "She just says what she's thinking. Everyone says what they're thinking to me, anyway. Just not out loud."

"Must be hard, keeping it all under wraps all the time."

Luke shrugged. "We all keep who we are hidden. It's sentient nature." He glanced meaningfully about the Rebel ship's bay. "You kept a lot hidden from me."

Han considered for a second. "You really think so?"

The kid managed to hold onto his anger for a few moments longer, but it slowly subsided from his dark-dyed eyes, and he let his gaze flick away. "No…no, I don't suppose you did. I just didn't want to see. Stupid that way."

"It's not stupid, it's friendship. That's what it is—it sees the truth and doesn't care."

They sat for a few minutes in amicable silence, before Han kicked at the charred remains of a dispersion coil. "I don't think you're gonna save that."

"I know. I'm rerouting what I can and sealing off the damaged exhaust port."

"She'll run on five ports, easy," Han said conversationally. "Wouldn't do too many hot take-offs, though."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out when she threw a tantrum about the way we took off on Rishi—and that was on all six," Luke said casually of the freighter. "I don't think she likes me."

Han glanced up at the battered ship. "Well I guess it was kinda a rude introduction. First you leave her for months on end, then when we finally do turn up it's with Imps shootin' at us, before we almost drag her out of the landing bay on her nose… then we let her get shot up by a Star Destroyer."

"Hey, I was trying to put out a fire in her engine room when she spat her coolant system at me."

"She's a tough old dame, she's been around. She doesn't take any crap." It was a nice ship though, he had to admit. Had that sort of feel to her; like no matter what, she'd get you there in the end. "Maybe if we fix her, she'll forgive us."

"I need parts for that," Luke sighed.

"I'll get you the parts," Han said. "Hell, we might even pick a few up legally," he added, eyeing up the transverse matrix which he was pretty sure the perky little engineer Kai had re-appropriated from the parts store.

Luke stretched out a foot and used his toe to scrape it back towards him. "Mine…now."

"You got the loop template to connect that into?"

"Yeah."

"Well then what's it doing still out here?" Han asked, rising to walk up the ramp.

There was a moment of silence…then the scrape of metal as the kid lifted the transverse matrix and followed him.

.

.

.

.

.

.

They were in that damn YT freighter again—Han now spent so much time in her that he was beginning to think he lived here. In fact Luke had already spent a couple of nights in her cramped onboard cabin—he may as well; he worked on the freighter most every waking hour, now. Han still had no idea if it was simply for want of something else to do, or whether Luke was planning on shipping out of here the same hour he finished.

But after a full week it had settled into some kind of unspoken routine that Han too spent most of his downtime here, when his shift was done. Those overran a lot at the moment though, as did the Rogues', who he was flying his next mission with.

Oddly, it was the impending mission against the Ghost Fleet that had bought the kid so much leeway in the last week. Leia had argued—and Mon had had been quick to see the point—that if they wanted Luke to give up even a fraction of the information he so stubbornly held silent about at the moment, then they needed to give him a _reason_. They needed him to invest. Here, with the people around him.

And to do that, he needed to integrate. He needed to belong.

Thing was, the kid had always been taught that he didn't belong anywhere. He'd had that lesson ground into him by Old Yellow Eyes, year in, year out. The leadership here… sharp as they were, they simply had no idea what they were asking of him. No idea of the monumental triumph of will over experience that the kid was pressing, just to be here at all.

"What?" Luke's back remained to Han, only his head and shoulders visible because they had the deck plates up in the rear engine room and he'd shimmied into the constricted space below deck-level to get at the cross-wired mess that was the freighter's relay systems, a wide array of tools spread out on the remaining deck plates around him. But he still knew Han was staring.

"Nothin'," Han dismissed. "Just calculating. Another few days'll get the sublight working."

"Looks like it."

"And the hyperdrive's already operational."

"Yep," Luke replied without lifting his head.

"So…you planning on somehow getting this thing up to an open docking bay and outta here?"

The kid's shoulders stopped moving for a moment, but he still didn't turn.

Han tried again. "I ask 'cos…you're here—but you're really not, are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what I mean. What I don't understand is what else is out there, pullin' you back. The Old Man's gone, and let's face it, you never gave a blind damn about his Empire, did you?"

"I was still Ubiqtorate."

"You said yourself that you only put that uniform on because Palpatine sent it. That was it. That's not commitment—not to them."

"It's…complicated."

They worked in silence for a few minutes, before Han decided to try a different tack.

"Do you ever think about Indo," he asked at last, of the man who'd brought Luke up on Coruscant, under Palpatine's watchful eye.

"Of course."

"What d'you think?"

Kid frowned, eyes remaining on his task, uncertain what he was being asked. "I dunno…maybe I miss him. Miss that…leveling presence."

"Don't put him on some kinda pedestal, Luke." Han shook his head, not wanting to speak ill of the man who had been Luke's guardian-come-tutor on Coruscant, but as appalled today at what Indo had done in facilitating an eleven year old kid's spice addiction as a method of control, as he'd been on the day he'd found out.

"You think he started me down that path," Luke said quietly, turning dark-dyed eyes on Han. "He didn't. He probably saved my life."

"Saving your life would've been walking you out of there."

Kid laughed softly. "No. No, it wouldn't. Others tried. Indo…he got me through. And I know you disapprove, but…" He shook his head, well aware that _disapproval_ was an understatement. "Anyway, he's dead, now. Doesn't matter what anyone thinks."

"I would've walked you out of there."

"I wouldn't have let you," the kid said quickly, then glanced away. "I don't want to argue. I'm all argued out."

"Well that's a first."

Straightening, Luke hitched out of the access hole and walked to the cluttered holotable to sort through the tools there—and paused.

"Oh, I…borrowed some of these tools from a woman with long red hair. I meant to give them back but I don't know her name or cabin. You know her? She wears her hair in a plait down her back. She may be a pilot or a tech, I don't know, I'm not sure."

Han raised an eyebrow. "That's it—'Red hair, might be a pilot'?"

"Why?"

"You once corrected me when I described a guy's suit as black. You had your back to him—you'd seen him for a moment, that's all—but you said it had brown flecks in it. Then you went on to describe his shirt, the number of buckles on his boots…you even told me which side his hair was parted. 'Red hair, might be a pilot' is pretty damn vague, for you."

"She…had dark boots which laced up the center back. Had her own jacket on, dark green with lacing up the side seams and the arms."

"Oh, I know who it is, that's…I think I think her name's Mica Tasseca," Han nodded. "Green eyes, slim, pretty…" he prompted, casually testing.

Kid nodded without thinking, and Han wrestled himself to a serious face. "She's ground tech crew, I think. I spoke to her once or twice. There's…something about her." His eyes narrowed in appraisal. "I could see where you two might hit it off."

"No," Luke said definitively, turning back to sift through the tools. "I just have some of her stuff, and I need to return it."

"I can find out where her cabin is, if you like."

"Thanks." Kid walked back to the open deck plates to drag one of the exhaust hoses partway out. "Has she…been here a while?"

Han couldn't help herself this time. "Do you actually have a crush on a _Rebel soldier_?"

Luke's eyes stayed low as he wrestled with the heat exhaust's hose clip. "Forget it. I just wanted to return her stuff, that's all."

"No, I'll check." Han let the silence hold, but the kid was always better than him at waiting these moments out…probably in the vain hope that Han would let them go. "You want my advice?" he pushed at last.

"I have no words for just how little I want your advice," Luke said dryly without turning.

"I was gonna say just go ask her out, she might not bite your head off, but…she's pretty tough."

"Did we just skip entirely over the fact that I didn't want your advice?"

"Yeah. And the fact that, if you've already spoken to her, we're probably going for damage control, here."

"Thanks," Luke said. "Though that's not too far from the truth."

Han turned, lifting his soldering goggles up onto his forehead to show wary eyes. "What did you say?"

Luke stared for a second, tight-lipped…then shook his head incrementally, turning away.

"D'ja give her _the look_?" Han pushed.

"The look?"

"The one you give me all the time. The 'I'm just barely hanging onto my civility right now, and that's only because you half-bore and half-amuse me', look. The attitude."

"I don't have attitude."

"Kid, you _are_ attitude."

"That's because you say things like that!"

"Hey, you were pre-attitude long before I met you," Han held. "You were fifteen, AWOL, smokin' spice in a back street cantina, and you'd just got into a vibroblade fight with a drunk spacer and a Rhodian."

"They started it!"

"If I remember rightly, it was 'cos you were givin' them attitude."

"I was—" The kid paused, and caught himself. "Okay, getting a little off-point here… In fact, you know what, that's fine. Let's get off-point."

Han nodded slowly. "You really like the redhead, don't you?"

Luke dropped the pipe and walked to the relay console set into the wall. "No. I have an aversion to redheads. Have you soldered that break or not?"

"Yeah, I bridged it. You asked her out?"

"Have you tested the board's integrity?"

"I'm getting to it. So when are you takin' her tools back?"

"Never. Forget it. The tertiary gain system's still showing a fault—a break in the line. Probably just another heat-melt from the fire."

"Have you traced it back?"

"It's between relay boards seven and ten. I can't backtrack any closer because there's a fault in the junction lines."

Han glanced about the engine room. "She was on fire for _two_ minutes!"

"Probably a pre-existing fault. A lot of the boards are cross-wired."

Han stepped back, eyes tracing the open mechanics which ran along the rear curve of the ship, against her main engine block. All the closure panels had been unclipped and laid on the floor, to reveal the mass of pipes and ducting and cross-wiring that had slowly been incorporated over the freighter's long life. "You got those new support struts? If we get them in, we can open up more of the main block."

"They're outside…hang on."

.

Walking down the ramp, Luke slowed a little to bang against his own forehead with his fist; what the hell had he been thinking, to ask Han about Mara? He'd eventually pulled him off-subject, just barely.

Sighing, he pursed his lips in thought, brain still raw from lack of spice. Maybe he should hang around more with Kai, the Rogue ground crew Flight Technician. Pull Han off the scent a bit. He paused, picking up the long, ratcheted support pipe that Kai had managed to re-appropriate from the main parts store from him, and felt a brief rush of guilt for even considering using her.

Besides, that particular line of strategy hadn't exactly worked out to plan last time, with Shira Brie.

And what the hell was Mara doing here, anyway? Had she come for him? Swinging the bar in a loose loop, he considered that; but there was no logic to it. If she'd come for him, she would have either made contact with him, or with…with Palpatine—in which case, there would be a Super Star Destroyer breathing down his neck right now. It had been four days since he'd seen her…ample time for her to make her move, he'd figured. So why had…

He paused, aware of eyes on him, and saw Leia walking forward, smiling. Why, every time he saw her, did he get that burst of something halfway between guilt and panic in the center of his chest?

"What?" he asked, the reflex abruptness of the question intended to enforce some distance.

She only smiled. "Practice?"

"…What?"

She glanced meaningfully at the pipe in his hand…and it was only now that he realized that at some point in his thoughts he'd changed his grip to that of holding a saber hilt, and had been swinging the pipe in a slow infinity loop to either side of his body. He scowled, taking a less meaningful grip of it midway along its length. "Habit."

Leia stared for long seconds, bright eyes taking in far too much for his liking. "We should spar sometime."

He raised one eyebrow. "Yeah, 'cos that can only turn out well, right?"

"I'm serious. We could at least do kata together."

He glanced back up the ramp to the _Falcon_ , the thought of returning to Han's jibes about Mara suddenly seeming a more appealing option. It was easy to maintain distance with Han; he knew the rules, knew the distance Luke liked to sustain about himself, and why. Leia…she didn't know what he really was—or didn't want to see. She was always pushing for more, always forcing Luke onto a back foot, every conversation and casual offer somehow pressing him into uneasy retreat. And the terrible thing was…part of him didn't want to. Some deep, wounded part of him so desperately wanted to drop all the arduous shields and defenses…

He twitched, glancing down. "Another time, maybe."

"Tonight, after supper?"

"Tonight?"

"Say, nine?"

He shook his head. "No…no, not tonight. I'm busy."

"She can wait one more night."

Luke stared… "What?"

"The _Falcon_ —she can wait until tomorrow. She'll still be here."

He turned aside to hide his relief, heart still pounding. "Oh…"

He was under siege here. It was easy to forget, but the fact was that he was…what? He didn't even know. Some glorified curio halfway between a prisoner and a patient. Some odd combination of pariah and recluse. He slept among them, ate their food...yet he told them nothing. Nothing of Palpatine, or the new Death Star, or Ghost Fleet. Worse, simply by being here, his presence alone was sufficient to bring all of that down on them…and still he told them nothing. Because you didn't betray your own Master. You _didn't betray your own Master_. Ever.

He stared at Leia, feeling that same guilt gnaw within him, his loyalties freshly split. He wasn't one of them. He never could be. Palpatine had seen to it with his usual cold efficiency that wherever Luke went he would remain the outsider, the impostor. The untrustworthy, the deceitful, the disloyal…

That last word stopped him dead, distant memories surfacing—of an old man's curved fingernails trailing his cheek, ocher eyes intent:

" _Will you always be my servant, child?"  
_ " _Always, Master."  
_ " _Would you die for me?_ " _  
_" _I'd die for you…on your command._ "

Even now, the memory of that pale and wasted face creasing into a yellow-toothed grin of true and rare approval fired something deep within, pride and pain and repulsion twisted and knotted together, all snarled up within as his Master's rasping voice as he had whispered, _"There, child…_ _there_ _is your true worth."_

.

.

.

.

.

.

Palpatine sat in silence, fingers steepled before his mouth, chair turned away from the dark opulence of his chamber to stare out across the fleet which gathered in ever more impressive numbers about his Super Star Destroyer.

His Super Star Destroyer. His fleet. His Empire. His galaxy. _His_.

Every system, every star, every planet, every life. Everything.

He rested his forefingers against his lips, eyes narrowing, aware of the black knot of righteous fury which simmered beneath his ribs, balling ever tighter as the facts settled into his mind. His lip twitched briefly against the stifled desire to give vent to his rage as the particulars of the brief conversation with Jade rose to the surface once again, firing a low growl which rumbled in his throat.

With the Rebels…Luke Antilles was with _the_ _Rebels_.

How exactly he had got there was irrelevant, as was Jade's as yet unsuccessful attempt to uncover his specific status on the ship, which she had wasted days trying to verify before talking to her Master, believing it of relevance when it was not.

The only fact of consequence was this:

He was still there.

Whether he had been captured, discovered, deceived, mislead, helped, healed, caged, cornered…it was all utterly irrelevant.

The only fact of significance was that he was _still_ there.

He was a Sith, trained from childhood by Palpatine himself. If he did not wish to be there, he would have left. No matter how, he would have contrived to escape…. _if_ he did not wish to be there.

Which left only one logical alternative.

The datapads and holocubes across the desk behind Palpatine clattered, quivering as the air about them vibrated. It required a conscious effort on his part to silence them. To hold the fury contained.

The technicalities of regaining his Empire were…irksome. And growing more so by the day. But in the larger scheme of things, they were nothing. He could regain all that he had lost, with the right tools at hand.

When he had returned to his realm to find it fragmented, it had been a minor setback. Wholly manageable. An opportunity, in fact, to streamline and restructure. But then at the time, he had stood with three Force-trained adepts at his back. Now he had just one close to hand, and she the most duplicitous of the group.

The woman whose loyalty he had always relied on, he had been forced to send away in order to maintain the focus of the youth whose loyalty _should_ have been the most steadfast of all. It had been Vader's son, after all, whom Palpatine had personally held from childhood. Whom he had shaped, conditioned and prepared all towards one purpose: servitude. Not individuality, not self-advancement. No ambition there—the capricious flaw that had rendered his father deviative. No self-serving aspirations, no sense of self-interest or even self-preservation. Only deference; compliance. The perfect advocate.

His jaw flexed as his teeth ground slowly.

Yet the boy had always been unstable, that willfully obstinate streak which characterized his line never quite beaten out of him. He'd learned to hide it, that was all; to bury it deep, and take sly delight in subtle expressions of individualism. At seventeen, he played the game like a war-weary, world-wary veteran. And Palpatine had let him, amused at the dichotomy of his creation. The jaded cynicism of a barely-grown boy.

Jaded…Jade.

He'd always worked so hard to keep his advocate isolated from anyone, ever—or would the boy have left, anyway?

Was the fracture cleft when he'd found out the truth of his father? Had Palpatine lost him then? Or had it been the year of absence from his Master's constant leveling presence which had deepened that breach, allowing Jade's arrival to wrench it to breaking point?

He stared coolly into the middle distance, watching wan sunlight play across the wide, angled planes of the hulking Star Destroyers as they maneuvered within his fleet. But then, this too was ultimately irrelevant. There remained only one salient point…

Cut loose, or invest?

Unknowing of his true relationship to the boy, Vader had so often argued to Palpatine as the boy had grown, that this particular experiment should be brought to a decisive halt. A terminal one.

Was it time to make that call?

Or was it hasty, when so much could potentially be salvaged?

He would need reliable genetic matter, of course; somatic cells, medically harvested—a process that could not be hidden. And he would need to keep the boy amenable, at the very least until the first clone was viable, and preferably until it was of a workable age. One should always prepare for the future, and a new cloning facility would have to be built anyway, once his own clones were safely retrieved from Rhen Var.

He had already offered his advocate the lure of immortality…but the transfer of consciousness from donor to clone did not necessarily have to take place. One could begin again; the same exceptional genetic line, a new generation. How often had he wondered whether he had simply not held the boy from an early enough age. Or he could mature a clone to Antilles' present age, and await or create an opportunity—an injury sufficient to keep the youth away from his colleagues' eyes for several weeks. Destroy Antilles himself on the day of the injury, and start again from that point, with a clone—would that be feasible?

… Interesting.

And irksome, to have to admit defeat. Or need it be called that at all? Perhaps… _insurance_ was a better word.

This could yet simply be the rashness of youth—one final flash of juvenile defiance, after which his advocate would return, wiser and infinitely more committed for having been indulged.

Had he been asked just hours ago, not knowing his advocate's hiding place, Palpatine would have said with absolute surety that it was simply part of the ongoing power game between a growing youth and the only credible authority figure in his life. The inevitable struggle which defined the bond between a Sith Master and any worthy advocate.

It wasn't a threat, but an endorsement of his teaching—so long as he could contain the youth, of course. Which he could; he had wrapped those chains long ago, many and deeply. And he had tested them himself just a month earlier, when he'd put the lightsaber in his advocate's hand and provoked him to breaking point…and watched, as the chains which bound him had held with satisfying efficacy.

His eyes narrowed further; perhaps this too was meant to be, and Palpatine's awareness of the wider issues was part of that path—the advantage that only a Sith could hold. This was his forte, after all; to turn problems into opportunities. His delight, to twist them back onto themselves in such intricately convoluted contortions that his hand in their collapse was untraceable.

He knew in a way that only the Force could offer, that the boy _would_ return soon enough of his own accord, contrite and wiser. Antilles _wanted_ to return…he must; the bonds which tied him to his Master were too deeply ingrained to simply slough free on some disgruntled whim.

Still staring into the darkness, Palpatine felt his lip twitched again, but this time in the barest trace of a smile as fury finally sharpened to focus; yes. Yes, he could see how even this could be managed to his own advantage. He had so much in play already…it would take only the subtlest of twists to modify the strategy in hand.

And if not, he would make certain that he had his insurance in place.

Yes…

.

.

.


	22. Chapter 22

.

.

 **CHAPTER 22**

.

.

.

She arrived at nine, tapping lightly against the door of his room inside the medicenter and making Luke curse under his breath. He leaned against the frame body atilt, blocking the doorway as he opened it, voice dry.

"I'm busy."

Leia ignored that entirely, holding her hand out. "Here."

Luke looked down—and felt his heart quicken just a fraction. In her right hand was the lightsaber she always wore at her belt—and in her left, held out to him, was his own. They must have stored it since Rishi.

She shrugged, slightly apologetic. "It has a minimal charge, and I have to take it back after the sparring session, but—"

"They think lack of a lightsaber is what's stopping me leaving?" He didn't know whether to be amused or offended.

"No, I think they just figure you could do a lot more damage on your way out, if you had one."

He turned to step back into his small room. "I'm not sparring with you."

"How can you not want to practice?" She stepped through the door before it closed, as adamant and open as ever, no idea of how vulnerable he felt in her presence. The sibling who wanted nothing more than to know her brother, faults and all, she waited with such… _belief_. In him.

It made him uneasy. Made him push her back, for her own safety as well as his. "It's late."

"Han said you always stayed up until the early hours, on Coruscant."

"Not to spar."

"You know, it was so much a part of my training, growing up. I sparred with Obi-Wan pretty much every other day. I can't imagine not running through kata, it's almost like a precursor to meditation."

"Sith don't meditate. Not in the way Jedi do."

"Perhaps you should." She hesitated, probably aware that he was becoming less amenable by the moment. He wasn't trying to hide it. "I could show you how t—"

"No."

"I…heard that Sith used a form of meditation before battle, to—"

"We don't do what you do, okay? You can't…cajole me back onto whatever the hell you consider the _right_ path." He broke off, jaw clamping as he looked away.

She hesitated, then tried again. "I was told that performing kata is like meditation for Sith—as near as you get."

"We don't meditate. Sith don't meditate. We don't need to commune with something that's ours to control, we don't need to _understand_ it."

It was what he'd always been taught, what he'd always held to—even when it no longer made sense.

His Master had always said that a Sith must control the Force completely, command and direct it, bend it to his every whim. It had always seemed subtler than that, to Luke. His grasp of the extent and resonance of the Force, his comprehension of its subtleties, had only truly come into being when he had sidestepped his Master's instructions to come to his own perception of the Force, which was that one did not _read_ or use the Force…one scattered and _became_ it.

"You meditated on Coruscant." Leia's words, quietly spoken, pulled him from his reverie. "I sensed you. When I first came to Coruscant with Master Kenobi. You were meditating, reaching out…"

He'd been searching to clarify the hair-fine distortion in the Force that Kenobi's carefully concealed presence had triggered, Luke remembered; searching on his Master's command because even then, Palpatine had known that Luke could connect with the Force in a way that Palpatine could not, deciphering the space between awareness and intuition. And in that moment as he'd scattered himself ever thinner, searching out the mote in the storm, that flaw in the uniform, he'd connected with Leia, her presence an unmistakable fusion of compassion and courage. Had she sensed him too, in that moment? Had they been somehow in synch even then, minds or souls attuned?

He realized he was shaking his head only when Leia spoke. "You _were_ meditating—I sensed you clearly, Luke."

"I was searching, that's all."

"You were in a meditative state."

He shook his head again. "Sith don't meditate." This time when she paused, he couldn't help himself. "…What?"

"Onboard _Home One_ , in the medicenter… When you were at your worst, struggling to breathe…I came to you, and… I led you in, but you made that contact. You completed that link."

Luke stared as the memory came clear for the first time; of the effortless fall back into that vast, pacific calm of warmth and ease and solace. The cool sense of focused energy vibrating about and through him, the respite within serenity. The sense of deliverance, of release. Of freedom.

"You used the Force for healing, Luke," Leia said gravely. Honestly. "A Sith can't channel the Force for healing—it's not in their nature."

He glanced down, refusing to acknowledge the greater implications of that, instead falling back on another rebuttal. "You shouldn't have led me."

"To heal yourself?"*

"To use the Force at all."

"You barely use it, do you? Even on Rishi you tried hard to avoid it."

His mind was already casting about for a rejoinder that would anger or offend—anything to push her back. In the end, it was none of those; just a simple statement hiding deeper truths. "I don't want to spar with you."

Those huge dark eyes studied him for a second. "You won't hurt me. I trust you. You need to…" Again a pause, as if she knew that any attempt at advice would be rejected. "You need to learn to trust yourself. You _know_ what's right and wrong…but you won't listen. Why?"

The brief flare of anger at being so astutely called was instantly drown by the memory of his last duel with Palpatine—the burst of raw fury that had pushed him to the very edge of control. "Jedi…you temper your responses. That's not what a Sith is taught."

She paused, and he sensed a change come over her, from confidence to uncertainty. "Did you ever spar with our father?"

Luke leaned back slightly, reluctance quieting his voice as he nodded. "Palpatine taught me, but it was Vader I sparred with."

He already knew what the next question would be; could see it coming with a terrible inevitability, his thoughts desperately racing to sidestep it. "He didn't know who I was."

Was that…forgiveness? Luke blinked, hearing his own justification of his father's actions, spoken for the first time because…because he didn't want to disillusion his sister any further.

"I'm sorry, Luke."

The pity in her voice was unbearable. He didn't want it—had no idea of how to process it. Anger flared again, this time in defense, and he cast the lightsaber hilt away to clatter noisily across the floor until it came up against the far wall.

He'd been about to stride away entirely, but the intense burst of astonishment which radiated out from Leia brought his head back around.

She was staring, eyes wide in shock at what he'd just done.

"What?"

"That's your lightsaber."

He barely glanced back. "It's a tool, nothing more."

He sensed the bloom of protective shock as Leia's hand tightened about her own saber hilt to draw it protectively closer. "It's a symbol of everything that we are. It's a link with the past and a commitment to the future, to everything we believe in. It's a reminder of the pledge we make to ourselves and to others—of our obligations and responsibilities."

"It's a metal tube filled with conductors, wires, a power pack and a few focusing crystals. It's no different to a blaster. In fact a blaster needs more attention, if you want to keep it in good shape."

She glanced down, seeming afraid to ask. "What happened to…my lightsaber—on Coruscant?"

"I threw it in a trash compactor on the way back to…" He trailed off at the look on Leia's face. "Sorry, I…didn't know all that stuff you get taught."

"It's not _stuff_. A lightsaber is integral to our identity. You can get a sense of the Jedi who owned a saber just by holding it, because its owner wore it and used it every day of his life."

"That's just the type of saber—how it was made to be used. They always reflect their user's fighting style."

"You know it's more than that. You can get a sense of the _person_."

"I can get a sense of the person by holding his boots, if he wore them often enough," Luke dismissed. "To a Sith, it's just another weapon. Yours…it was a piece of evidence I needed to get rid of."

She remained still and he glanced away, part reassured at the distance he'd managed to reset, part uneasy at having upset her. "If it makes you feel any better, yours sliced a good-sized chunk out of my shoulder before I managed to take it off you, so it had its revenge."

Now it was Leia's turn to drop her eyes. "I'm sorry, I…"

Probably she'd seen the scar when he'd been in the medicenter onboard _Home One_ , Luke realized. "Don't be. Doesn't matter."

"Luke do you…can I ask you something?"

He braced a little, but for once tilted his head in allowance.

"Your eyes…when you were in the medicenter and the medic said that they'd been dyed, I thought…I thought it was to disguise the fact that…well, that they'd transformed, as a Sith's eyes do, to yellow or red. But now…"

He knew the dark dye he'd used whilst on the run was beginning to leach out from the center of his eyes to the rim, revealing their natural color. And he knew, of course, that it was blue.

Leia's eyes remained on his. "You couldn't…when they needed to replace the lens, you couldn't have maintained any kind of deception to disguise them, so…"

"This is their real color," he said uneasily. "This is it, they're blue. I don't know why they never changed."

Leia hesitated, clearly not wanting to push him into a corner. "Did you ever ask?"

"It doesn't mean anything."

"I've never heard of a Sith whose eyes didn't change."

"It doesn't mean anything," he repeated more forcefully.

"I was thinking about it," Leia said softly. "Thinking about what Han told me about…about Toprawa and Bria Tharen, and the spy in Sinto Base, and the Rebel listening post in the Cron Drift."

She paused, but he didn't speak, the names of those he'd killed on Palpatine's order running unbidden through his mind. Because he knew them; knew the name of everyone he'd killed, to answer his Master's demand.

She licked her lips, pushing on. "I wondered…all that you did, you did on his command, didn't you? Because he told you it was justified, it was necessary."

"You're splitting hairs," he dismissed. "Playing with semantics."

"Or I'm substantiating facts. Refining a hypothesis, in the absence of any other viable explanation. Because all that you did, you did on command."

"I knew what I was doing."

"When you were eleven?"

He didn't visibly flinch, though inside he recoiled for a brief second. Then he was on the defensive, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "I'm not eleven any more."

She paused—but again, she wouldn't be forced to back down. "You remember their names, don't you—the ones you killed on Palpatine's command… you remember all their names. You remember because you regret—you regret it."

"It didn't stop me."

There was so much rolled into those words. Even stood in the center of it all, he could hear the guilt and defense and contrition and confusion.

"Luke…your eyes have never changed because you've never truly committed to the ways of the Sith—not with your whole heart and soul. You've followed orders, because you've been taught to do that your whole life—because you've never even been given an option. Han said that you told him that he was a soldier, trained by other soldiers… You told him that you were trained, too—"

"As a killer," Luke said resolutely. "I told him that I was a killer. That's what I was trained to be."

Leia nodded, leaning forward in her eagerness to connect. "A soldier is trained by a soldier, you said that to Han. But you believe that you're a killer—that it's your defining characteristic…right? That means by your own admission and standards, that you believe—however subconsciously—that you were trained by a killer. A murderer. That's what _you_ believe the man who trained you was…and that sounds like doubt to me. It sounds like conscience. In fact, that sounds like a decision—one you've put into practice by coming here."

"I told you before, don't place your faith in me. You'll be disappointed."

She hesitated, seeking a way forward. "You know, in all you've said of him, I don't think you've once said that you believe he was right."

"That doesn't mean that I'd abandon all he taught me."

"Why not?"

"Do you think that _I'm_ right, in all I've said and done? Yet you haven't abandoned me. You haven't turned your back on me. And you don't even know me, like I know—knew—him."

"You're my brother."

"He was my Master, my teacher."

"Your jailor."

"No."

"Not all bars are physical, Luke. He held you with lies. About your past, about your father…"

"Maybe he was right to," Luke murmured quietly. "Look at what happened—all that's unraveled since."

"What…what happened in the end, with our—with Vader?" She lifted her head, and in that moment she seemed easily as lost as he felt, dragged and pummeled by the storm of escalating events.

It occurred to him only now that it had been the Rebels whom Leia stood among, as her father had died—among those who had killed him. Knowingly. That she'd had to stand shoulder to shoulder with them as they celebrated, saying nothing.

He glanced down, humbled. "I don't know. I only know that he intended to face Palpatine, to ensure that he remained onboard the _Conqueror_ until the _Ram_ hit it. That's all. I was already unconscious and on a shuttle by that point."

He'd tried, repeatedly, to prize the truth from his Master on his miraculous return. But he knew no more now than he had a year ago, when he'd woken in the shuttle, alone. He desperately wanted to know the truth, but it was only now, here, that he realized…he never would.

Palpatine would never allow it. Knowledge, to his Master, had always equated to power. And he would never share that. Luke let out a small laugh; it was so obvious, from this distance. He'd never had that luxury before.

"Vader put you on the shuttle," Leia nodded. "He came to find you?"

"No," Luke sighed quietly. "I'd gone to find him."

She frowned, waiting in silence, knowing there was more.

"…Palpatine had sent me to…" He paused, old wounds laid bare once again—and how did she always do this, dragging to the surface all that he'd fought so hard to lock away. Asking for impossible answers.

Her hand to his sleeve made him shake his head—in denial of her sympathy or his own guilt; he didn't know which. The validations came easy, though; he'd repeated them often enough. "He was right to ask it of me. My loyalty was compromised the moment I knew the truth, and he needed proof that it wasn't irredeemable. He needed to rectify the situation. Who else could have dealt with Vader? If he'd done it himself, I would have always…"

"Always held it against him," Leia finished, when Luke couldn't bring himself to speak such a transgression out loud.

"How could he think that I would ever be able to duel my own…" Luke slowed as he lapsed into thought, seeking to legitimize his Master's demand, even now. "But he stared…when he gave me the order he just stared, waiting, and I felt like…like I'd been given all the pieces of a puzzle and I was expected to put them together, but I couldn't—couldn't quite fathom… He wanted me to feel some greater calling, I suppose. Some deeper motivation to act, other than his command." Luke scowled, eyes skipping the floor before him. "Palpatine always told me that in the moment when he turned on his own father, and again when he turned on his Master Darth Plagueis, it was because he comprehended some higher calling within himself—knew what he had to do, to advance. I think he wanted me to experience the same when he gave me the command to turn on my…on Vader. That same epiphany. But all I knew was that…"

"That he was your father." Moved by his vulnerability she reached out to smooth his hair, and for once he didn't shy back. "When you had already lost so much," she added gently.

Luke frowned, eyes dropping to his hand where it clasped tighter at his side, fingernails bitten short. "If I'd done as he'd said from the beginning, if I'd learned that lesson when I was eleven—"

"You did," Leia assured. "You learned it perfectly Luke, and in the most terrible way. Only it wasn't the one that Palpatine wanted. You learned the value of life, the pain of loss. You learned compassion and empathy, and the true price of vindictive injustice. He wanted to numb you, to break you, to make you live your life in fear of him."

Luke glanced up, but Leia shook her head, very sure. "But you didn't—you didn't. You learned to fear what he was capable of doing to others, not yourself. Can't you see how rare that is?"

"He wanted to teach me to be strong." How many times had that validation been launched at him, a judgment found wanting.

"He only ever sought to break you. You taught yourself to be strong."

"It wasn't strength, it was…desperation."

"You know, sometimes real strength feels that way."

He felt his cheek twitch as he lifted his head to glance at her through dark-dyed bangs. "Well then I must be doing great."

For once, she smiled at his dry wit. "...I think you are."

.

.

.

.

.

Han was pushing himself out from under his low-slung A-wing fighter, where he'd been laid on a roller-board for the last half-hour, when he saw Luke enter the fighter hangar like he had every right to, despite supposedly being limited to the maintenance bays several levels down. He did so at just the right pace, neither wary nor sheepish, eyes forward, shoulders slack, his step slow enough to imply that he didn't feel the need to rush.

Han had to loose a lopsided grin; kid could walk into pretty much anywhere like he was meant to be there, if the mood was on him.

Luke glanced about the hangar only once, then veered off towards Han, slowing as he reached him. With each new day that passed, things calmed down further to what felt damn nearly normal, around the kid. So normal in fact that he was beginning to suspect, based on past experience, that something entirely new was ticking along as yet unseen in the background.

Kid slowed to a halt. "Hey."

"Hey. What's up?"

"Bored. I was looking for someone, but maybe they don't want to be found."

"The redhead?" Han asked without looking up.

"Only because I still have her tools."

Han scrabbled through the metal tech case beside him. "I don't like it when you get bored. You get into mischief."

"Mischief?" A brief smile tilted the kid's lips up, his eyes noticeably paler now that the brown dye was finally fading. "What, am I twelve, now?"

"Don't even get me started," Han dropped back onto the dolly and slid beneath the fighter with a grip-clip to hold the bundled innards of the A-wing aside.

"So…" The A-wing above Han rocked slightly as Luke leaned his weight against its body, craning to look into the cockpit. "How do you start these things up? Are they lockout-coded?"

"Yeah, like I'm gonna tell a pilot who's just admitted that he's bored, how to get our snub-fighters online."

The A-wing rocked again as Han grappled with its internal workings, hearing Luke's muffled voice, presumably as he leaned into the cockpit. "What, like I'd steal this. It's useless. It goes no-where without support craft, it has a tiny fuel storage capacity, minimal lightspeed… I can't sell it because they're only owned by the Alliance, I can't fly anywhere without half the Imperial navy coming down on me… and clearly it doesn't even work, if you're fishing around in its innards."

"You finished dishing my fighter?"

"Oh, is it yours? Imagine my embarrassment." The voice that drifted down to Han was dryly disparaging, but for fun rather than out of animosity, as another rock of the fuselage signaled Luke transferring his weight to lean on the angled wing.

"Yeah, you blush like a little girl," Han retorted, as he held out the calipers he'd pulled from his tools. "Here. If you're bored, stay and help me for a bit."

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to get the port guns to fire in a straight line."

Luke grinned. "Maybe you should be using these on yourself, then."

"Hey, ain't nothing wrong with _my_ targeting, smartass." Han slid back beneath the A-wing. "The damn range-rack system is out by about nine degrees, I think."

"If it was out by nine degrees you'd be missing everything by a ships-length."

"I know, it's getting embarrassing. Hand me the cut-in R-M."

"The what?"

"Range-master, hand me the range-master."

There was a rustle of movement, then the heavy, scan-screened reader was dangled wordlessly within his reach by unseen hands, its multiple cut-in wires hanging like a squid's tentacles. Han took it and began clipping connectors into the A-wing's internal wiring. "You want to fire up the calibration system on the bench, there? Set it to FR-9 and you'll pick up the R-M."

"That may as well have been in Aqualish," the kid replied.

Han pushed out slightly. "Don't you know how to use a range-master?"

Luke glanced at the calibration device without enthusiasm. "Should I?"

"You're fixing up your own freighter," Han said of the _Falcon_ —then slowed warily. "You _are_ fixing it right, aren't you?"

The kid scowled, visibly offended. "I think I can read a manual."

"That thing strayed off the manual instructions forty years ago."

"I know how to fix a sublight, reset or bypass security systems to get a ship airborne. I can make a reasonable stab at a hyperdrive if it's something basic. I know software, shields and principal targeting calibrations. Everything else I'm…learning as I go."

"I am never riding in that freighter," Han deadpanned.

"Hey, you were the same a year ago."

Han glanced wryly from beneath the edge of the fuselage. "Ah, the old days. Imperial credits to burn, and flight-deck techs everywhere."

"And decent food," Luke added dryly.

"Don't give me that. I remember in the palace you used to eat sat on the floor in the main corridor, or perched on the console in the library."

"Yeah, but I used to eat good food."

Han paused a beat. "Why _did_ you used to eat in the main corridor?"

"I didn't like the dining room."

He pushed out from beneath the ship again, to find Luke sat on the wing. "What was wrong with your dining room?"

"I just told you, I didn't like it." The kid was evasive now, picking at the A-wing's panel-work.

"…Why?"

"It had that big, sixteen-seater table in it, remember? There's nothing more depressing than sitting on your own at one corner of a sixteen-seater table, every single day. In silence."

Han stared, surprised at the admission. He remembered the huge, echoing room of course, whose massive formal table had been surrounded by high-backed chairs dressed in saddle-stitched black hide. Remembered the regimented slabs of symmetrical, book-matched obsidian marble which had lined its walls to well above head-height, darkening the vast room even further. To the far side, the towering mass of a heavily carved serving sideboard had spanned an entire wall, arrayed with an unbroken run of silver serving tureens, hand-hammered and stamped by artisans, the only flash of brilliance in the somber room. Flawless high-end antiques of matchless quality, laid out to Indo's fastidiously precise standards…none ever used.

Kid had been lonely. Simple as that. A rush of guilt hit Han, at the number of times he'd unthinkingly stepped over the kid's feet back then without really seeing, as Luke had sat on the floor in the main thoroughfare, plate on his lap. The number of times he'd just hustled past without even thinking about it.

Was that why Luke was here today?

"No, I told you, today I'm bored," Luke said evenly.

Kid still knew how to turn anyone from pity to indignation in three seconds flat. "Could you just _not_ read my mind for one minute!"

"Please, it was all over your face. Never play sabacc for money."

Han glanced down, taking the opportunity presented in the kid's words. "Doin' a lot of that yourself in the last year, I hear."

A brief silence signaled Luke's instant discomfort. "I got by."

Han pushed back under the A-wing's fuselage, wanting this to seem a casual conversation. "Why didn't you go back—to the Empire, I mean. After Corsin…why didn't you go straight back?"

"What was there to go back to," Luke said at last.

"Well then why go back at all?"

There was silence for as moment, then the A-wing rocked slightly as Luke pushed himself off of the wing, and Han watched the kid's boots move round to the cockpit, his voice becoming muffled as he leaned in to study it again. "So, why are you fixing this now—got a mission coming up?"

He stared at the exposed workings of his fighter for a few seconds, lips pursed, aware that he'd pushed too far for the kid's comfort. For a brief second he considered calling him on it…then let the moment pass. They were on rocky enough ground as it was. The very fact that Luke—who had always told him everything—was so evasive, was proof of that.

"Yeah, but not in this. It still needs doing, anyway. May as well be now."

"Let me guess…flying a TIE on your next mission, by any chance?"

Han pulled out from under the A-wing, but the kid only shrugged.

"The Rogues had TIE specs loaded into the flight simulators. Why else would they do that, if not mission practice?"

"That why you're hanging around with them," Han asked, amused by the kid's casual tone. "Tryin' to figure it out?"

Luke pursed his lips and glanced across the hangar with that carefully-arranged look of disinterest that Han knew so well. "Like I said, just bored."

Han held still…but for barely a second, the decision made on gut instinct. "Well let me save you the trouble. It's an infiltration. Quiet in, get what we need, fast out." He probably shouldn't be telling the kid this, but Luke had never once withheld information from him on Coruscant, no matter how sensitive. And anyway, he had an ulterior motive—an attempt to get something out of Luke by less direct means. So far, they'd come up blank by out-and-out asking him. Maybe they needed to at least try to meet him halfway, or just draw him in more gradually.

He pushed out fully from underneath the A-wing, wiping his hands as he rose, keeping his voice casual. "If you're so damn bored, why don't you come with us?"

Luke let out a brief laugh without meeting his eye. "You're seriously asking me to fly against the Empire?"

"You don't give a damn about the Empire. You never did. The mission's not an offensive anyway, it's just intel-gathering. We could do with another real TIE pilot in the mix—give us a little more legitimacy over the comm."

"No. Absolutely not."

"There are six of us going, all in TIEs. We have a set of active codes, but all they'll do is get us into the Fleet Group's fly-zone. We sidle in, we record comm chatter for an hour, we fly out—that's it."

"What do you expect to…" Luke trailed off as he put the facts together. "You're not—you don't seriously thing you'll be able infiltrate Ghost Fleet and just fly out of there again?"

Han shrugged casually. "Sure, why not?"

"Why not! You can't ju— Do you have any idea of the amount of security protocols they hold to?!"

"No…but you do, don't you?"

"So, what, you're trying to _blackmail_ me into handing over sensitive operational codes, to stop you doing something so stupid that you'll all get blown to pieces?"

"No," Han said. "We're going, either way—it's a done deal. Me, Wedge, Janson, Klivian, Sarkli and Datch, using the TIEs that were onboard the _Relentless_ when it was first captured, off Kathol. Like I said, we have a set of active codes to get us in, then—"

"Then they'll blow you to atoms."

"No." Han said calmly. "We're just gonna move around with the existing air traffic of any fleet. Record wide-band chatter, listen for names, see what we can pick up."

"Security's too high."

"Well then increase our chances of getting back—come with us."

"No."

"Okay, then tell me the current passcodes and transponder frequencies for safe passage."

"You just said you already had them."

"We do, but yours may be more current. They might prove ours to be ringers designed to identify just this. They might help us out of a tight spot, they—"

Luke was shaking his head. "I have _Executor_ codes. If I give you those, you could use them to land an assault team on the _Executor_ and go for Ghost Fleet's leader. You know that—and so do I."

"We won't. Not today."

"But you would eventually."

"When we find out who he is, you mean," Han asked, frowning.

Luke looked down, unwilling to answer even that. "Don't go on the mission."

"No, you don't get to say that," Han said firmly. "If you're worried something'll happen, you either help me, or you live with it. You tell me what's worrying you, or you keep quiet."

"What's worrying me is that they'll shoot you out of the sky—all of you."

"Well then come, and make sure they don't."

Luke took a step back, shaking his head. "I can't. You know that."

"Give me a set of passcodes, then."

"My passcodes are likely obsolete, by now. They'll have changed any codes I had when I walked out of there."

"Except that you also have Hand passcodes—they're always active, right?"

"Hand passcodes get you noticed, I'm pretty sure that's not what you're looking for. And you need to physically input most of them because they're hardwired during construction so they can't be detected in the programming and removed. That's the point."

Han turned fully, any attempt at keeping this casual, abandoned. "Ten minutes ago—just ten minutes ago—I watched you walk into this hangar like you were meant to be here, and I thought then that when you want to, you can do that same trick anywhere. You can get us into Ghost Fleet."

"No. I told you, I'm not fighting this war any more. I'm not taking sides."

"Luke…"

"You're no better than Palpatine, you know that? Everyone always wants something, they just dress it up differently. That's what he always said. At least he never hid it."

"I'm asking you to commit to something for yourself, not for me."

"So it's a coincidence that it just so happens to serve your goals, right?"

Han sighed, looking down. "You can't sit on the fence in this, Luke—not you. All or nothing, remember?"

"It's all or nothing because you're making it that. You're trying to force me into a corner."

"I'm trying to make you _think_! About who you are, where you're going."

"Where you need me to be."

"Where _you_ need to be, to be able to look at yourself in a mirror! To be able to sleep at night." Han shook his head, quieting his voice. "I'm not the one judging you, Luke. You're judging yourself. I just want you to see that. I know what we're asking—more than anyone else here, I know what we're asking. But I'm not asking it for the same reason that they are. I'm asking because if you don't stop, if you don't admit that you know you're on the wrong path and _choose_ to commit to something you can actually live with…you're just gonna rip yourself apart with or without the spice…aren't you?"

Kid remained silent, eyes down, expression unreadable for long moments… eventually he shook his head, backing up to turn about and stride from the hangar without another word.

.

.

.

Han walked slowly up the _Falcon's_ ramp in the internal maintenance bay, knowing Luke would be there. He paused at the top, listening to a string of curses being muttered in Coruscanti, then the clatter of yet another closure panel being unceremoniously dropped to the floor in the engine room, to the rear of the freighter.

Turning, he set off down the ovoid corridor in the direction of the noise—and ducked, shouldering into the semi-rigid couching that lined its walls, as a smaller panel plate came ricocheting down the corridor at speed, a fraction behind another string of the kid's loud cursing.

"Hey!" Han hollered. "That nearly hit me!"

Luke didn't turn as Han reached the engine room. He'd gotten yet another set of panels off the ship's main processor and was stood a step back, just staring at it. "Okay, I'm pretty sure there's not supposed to be three separate CPU's in here."

Han stared for a second, mentally adjusting to the fact that the kid was clearly gonna act as if the conversation they'd just had in the fighter bay had never even happened. They both knew it had, and that it had been things that had needed to be said. But…they'd been said, now. They needed time to sink in, Han figured. Time to mull over.

He paused a second longer as he mentally changed gear, then straightened, striding over. "There's only one CPU. Anything else'll be a redundant backup."

"It's inter-wired. And there's three of them."

"You don't need two backups."

"It's not a backup—and think I can count to three."

"You can't run a single freighter from three separate…well hell's teeth, look at that!"

Kid leaned in, head tilting slightly in study. "Is it just me, or does the upper one look like the interior of a 'droid's head?"

"How does it even stay airborne, with three separate logic systems pullin' it every which way at once?"

"I know just what it feels like," Luke murmured within a quiet sigh.

Han leaned closer to the jerry-rigged mess. Seemed that, like her new owner, the old freighter still knew how to throw the occasional curve-ball. And with both, the answer was the same.

"Well…let's see if we can straighten this mess out."

.

.

.


	23. Chapter 23

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER 2** **3**

.

.

The fighter bay hummed with repressed tension as it went on about its business, techs working around and beneath various snub-nose fighters, carrying out routine maintenance or neatly disassembling some major internal system, parts spread out in organized array as droids clattered about their assigned tasks oblivious of the taut undercurrent. But it was all a little quieter than normal; a little more deliberate, as if everyone there was willfully denying the knowledge that the bay lacked six fighters, now.

Six stolen TIEs, out on a mission inside enemy territory.

He'd sworn he wouldn't do this. He'd sworn—literally—into Han's face, an hour before they flew out. Reasoned and yelled and even pleaded…and when Han had still shaken his stupid, Corellian-stubborn head and stated that the mission was going ahead no matter what, Luke had called him every name he knew, and _sworn_ that he wouldn't come down to the bay to wait for them to return. There was no point; they wouldn't come back. Didn't he understand that?

He'd stormed back to repair bay and onto the _Falcon_ , kicking at open deck plates and throwing tools around for a good ten minutes, telling himself that he'd finish enough repairs to leave today—right now, in fact. He didn't need to stay, to know that they hadn't made it back. Slamming a backflow hose closed, he'd caught his thumb on the clip, slicing the flesh deeply and ripping the upper part of his nail completely free. He'd yelped, jerking back and tripping on a tool left on the floor—and as he let out a yell everything in the room that wasn't fastened down lifted to hurl backwards away from him, like a silent bomb that had exploded outwards.

In the ensuing silence as he remained doubled over, one hand wrapped about the other to staunch the blood, a single tone pipped quietly, signaling that one of the protective wall covers to the logic bay had been broken loose in the flurry. Gathering himself together Luke had walked over to it with a shaky sigh, acknowledging with dry irony that it was one of the few new cover plates in the entire engine bay, and pushed it back to lock it into place, leaving a blood-smeared fingerprint. Annoyed, he'd lifted his sleeve to wipe the mark away…then seen past it to his distorted reflection in the mirror finish of the new lock-down cover, warped where it rippled across the panel's newly-inflicted dent—and had stopped, staring at the man he saw there, blue-brown eyes wild, hair awry.

Glancing about the overturned tools, he'd found a knife Han had been using to strip wires for soldering, and hacked the remnants of his black-dyed hair off in a frenzy until all that was left were pale, uneven tufts cut short to his head, then stared numbly at his own reflection, oddly mollified. It had lasted a minute or so, the release he'd bought by doing something stupid and ugly and pointless…but as he'd stared, old habits had conjured the damning knowledge that he could numb his mind for far longer…

.

And now here he was, in the fighter bay. Despite everything.

But he was calmer now—the kind of calm that only spice bought.

It hadn't been hard to find. It never was, if you knew where to look. He'd known the first day that he'd gone walkabout, and met the Rebel pilots—he just hadn't felt the need to act on it…until now.

After a month clean, it had taken far less than usual to carve the sharp edges off of reality. Funny; he'd even gone down to the old tech maintenance heatsink beneath Stellar Cartography to smoke it, as he had for years before. Old habits…

He was swaying just slightly where he stood, vaguely conscious of people glancing sideways at his hacked-short hair. But it was manageable now, the awareness of that. The knowledge of why he was here in the first place. It had all softened just slightly.

He needed to sit down; it was hard to breathe.

He'd been forced to back up to lean against a tech table, rubbing his index finger absently over the inadequate, blood-soaked dressing on his thumb, eyes still fixed on the hangar bay entrance, when he saw someone approach out of the corner of his eye. For a second he was angry—the kind of dry, distant, hazy temper that bubbled beneath spice—ready to dismiss whoever was approaching with a stabbing sideways retort…then he realized who it was.

His stomach knotted and a burning burst beneath his ribcage, making him want to double over.

"Luke?" Leia paused a step away, concern coloring her voice. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

He didn't look; spoke as little as he could, intensely uncomfortable with the fact that she was seeing him like this, instantly regretting his lapse.

"Your hair—"

"I cut it."

"…Okay."

There was no point in his asking the mission's status; any undercover operation would have gone comm-dark from its start. So he stared out at the small rectangle of open space until his vision began to lose cohesion and the dark void began to crawl…

"Can I ask you a question?" There was unease in her quiet voice as she settled against the tech bench beside him.

"No."

She glanced away, voice wry. "I have got to stop asking for permission."

He remained silent, biting at the skin of his lip, eyes on the hangar bay entry.

Leia moved slightly beside him. "He can take care of himself, you know…Han, that is."

"Then why are you here?"

She glanced away to the massive hangar entry. They sat in silence for a while before she spoke again, quietly. "He shouldn't have asked you."

"Of course he should have asked me. I have the information he needed. I have the information that'd make the mission unnecessary in the first place."

"So now you think that if anything goes wrong, it's on your head. Is that why you…"

She broke off, which was worse than saying it, somehow. At least Han just out and out said it. Why that made it more manageable, Luke didn't know. But it did. He needed to sit down; his body was screaming that now, but some tiny lucent train of thought in the back of his head was repulsed by the thought of such self-inflicted weakness in front of Leia.

His mind, cast adrift on constant tangents, pondered on that for a second; that he didn't want to admit to spice _in front of Leia_. That he cared what she thought about him. It mattered. And when had that happened?

"What I don't understand is why you've taken it now." Leia hitched up to sit on the tech bench, bringing her to level height with Luke, who scowled as he stared ahead, jaw flexing.

She sat in silence beside him for a second, both their gazes fixed on the bay doors…but he knew another salvo was incoming. What he wasn't prepared for, was just how on-target it was.

"Han said that you took spice so that Palpatine wouldn't be able to judge your connection to the Force…that's what he told me. So…what's your reason now?

He didn't speak, thoughts mired, breathing heavy.

"Is it Han?" Leia asked quietly at last, as much to herself as to Luke. "I don't understand… because how do you think Han would feel, knowing that?"

She didn't know, of course; didn't know that Palpatine was alive and thriving. Didn't know, because Luke hadn't told her. Just as he hadn't told Han—the reason that this damn sortie was taking place at all.

Luke's head tilted a fraction as he blinked slowly, considering…He hadn't even known that Palpatine was alive for a whole nine months, whilst he was trailing around the spaceports of the Outer Rim. But he'd still loaded his body up with ever increasing quantities of spice. Relied on it, seeking to dull his connection to the Force whether Palpatine was there or not. Because he'd wanted to stop it for himself, too—that connection—and this was the only way he knew how. The only way to enforce it. Otherwise when he was cornered he fell back on the Force anyway, by necessity.

Or was it the way that he'd used it, that he'd sought to control? Because he didn't like this blanket severance—not really—but he knew damn well that it stopped him falling back on all that Palpatine had taught him. And he knew that was what he fell back on, under pressure. If you're under attack, you strike out—that was what he'd been taught. The only response was aggression, immediate absolute and unreserved.

Yet on the rare occasions that he'd used it solely in defense it had felt… tolerable; more instinct, than choice. Cleaner, somehow. Untainted.

Had he shunned the Force completely…or only certain facets?

He remembered Leia's claim, that he'd never become a true Sith because everything he'd done had been on his Master's command, no choice ever given. He'd held the same secret suspicion, more than once, that it might be the reason that his eyes had never changed. But the truth was that he couldn't claim he was still too young to comprehend what he was truly doing any more.

He let out a long breath, mind running the thought over and over—and damn the spice, for making it do so—then blinked, shaking his head a fraction.

Don't think about it.

… Old enough to comprehend what he was doing, on his Master's command…was that a part of why he'd walked away?

The ring of bright light which surrounded the hangar entry flared into life and the bay claxons sounded a warning, alerting any on the hangar floor that ships were incoming. Luke stared, nerves instantly dragging him back to the moment as the dark of space flared with re-entry points of small ships, distant dots of grouped fighters which separated out only as they closed.

He counted, chest frozen, as the stolen TIEs neared.

Two short—they were two short.

.

.

.

.

.

Han strode up the ramp into the _Falcon's_ hold still wearing his flight suit, some small part of him surprised that it was still here at all, after Luke had blown up in his face just before the mission. It seemed so long ago now, so much chaos crushed into the brief time since.

He didn't want to fight with the kid—not now. It was like…like coming home to family; some things just transcended all else. You just needed to be with someone who you had that kind of connection with. He'd sat with Leia for almost an hour after the de-briefing, just…decompressing. He'd gotten the feeling that she'd kept quiet about Luke for as long as she possibly could, she really had.

He remembered when he'd been like that, on Coruscant. When he'd tiptoed round the truth, not wanting to rock the boat. Now…well, time and familiarity had made him a little more forthcoming.

So he turned down the cushioned internal corridor heading toward the sound of movement, launching into words before he'd even entered the cockpit. "You took spice?!"

Kid didn't turn from his work on the cockpit console, where individual units had been pulled and laid about its surface. But then he'd probably known Han was on his way here about the same time that Han did—and the mood he was in.

"Welcome back," Luke said without emotion. "So who died?"

He'd waited long enough to watch Han land the stolen TIE on its cradle, Leia had said. Not moving forward as others had, staying silent and still, arms wrapped about himself, just long enough to see Han emerge unharmed from the TIE's cramped cockpit…then he'd turned and left without a word.

Han stepped forward to drop into the copilot's seat. "Klivian and Datch. Don't change the subject."

"That _is_ the subject."

"Where did you get it? What was it?"

Kid actually hesitated a fraction, then his lips pursed briefly, already defensive. "Ixetal."

"I'm not gonna—" Han paused, voice rising. "Ixetal? You're on _Ixetal_ now? When the hell did you start takin' Ixetal?"

"Six months ago." Luke picked up one of the pulled relays. "Do you have any artificial horizon indicators in the tech store? This one's off by nine degrees."

"Are you _trying_ to mess yourself up?! Ixetal's dangerous—lethal in the wrong dose."

"It's fine if you know how to take it—I didn't use it straight. The deaths are from rich kids playing tough at expensive nightclubs."

"Instant addiction, Luke!" Han practically yelled the fact. "The withdrawal can kill you, you know that?"

"It's not really your problem, is—"

"Don't! Don't even…" Han broke off, the constant pressure-keg existence and the day's dire events getting the better of him. "You know what? Fine! Go ahead. Spice yourself into a coma because you're more afraid of taking a chance on actually feeling something than you are of dying."

"Reverse psychology? Really? I don't know whether to feel insulted or amused."

"No, as I said to you once before, it's a little less sophisticated than that—it's called the truth. And the truth is that you're gonna go ahead and spice yourself into an early grave no matter what anyone says, aren't you? 'Cos you just don't give a damn. Either about yourself or the people around you, who have to watch."

"You know what, you're right, Han." The kid was getting angry too now, lip curling as he slammed the calibration ratchet he was holding onto the console. "That's your precious truth; I really don't give a damn."

Han glanced down, voice quieting. "And the people you're dragging down with you?

Luke too quietened, visibly uneasy. "There's a very simple solution to that one…just leave me alone."

"Leia won't do that, she won't abandon you. She's not gonna let go."

Unease turned into a scowl as Luke's voice hardened, eyes remaining down. "She doesn't know me yet—give it time."

Han sighed, his anger not really holding up against the kid's ready self-deprecation. "And what the hell—what the _hell_ —have you done to your hair?"

"I cut it."

"Did you have the lights on at the time?"

"Like you're one to talk."

Han straightened slightly in the copilot's seat to glance at his reflection in the faceted viewscreen and smooth his hair just slightly. "Hey, I make this work."

"No. You don't."

"Looks better than yours."

"Mine's meant to look this wa—" The kid broke off, realizing his own slip in the same moment that Han did.

Han sighed heavily. "They knew the risks—we all did. We all chose to go."

"I could have halved the risks. I could have made it unnecessary to go at all."

"The mission would have gone ahead no matter what you'd said. You made a conscience call. You took the only choice that enabled you to still look at your reflection in the—"

Luke straightened. "Do I _look_ like I looked at myself in the mirror this morning?!"

"What do you want me to say, Luke—you made the wrong choice? You didn't. You made _a_ _choice_. You can't see the future."

Kid let out a silent laugh within a rough breath. "Actually, sometimes I can."

"D'ja see this?"

"… No."

"Well then…" Han paused, letting his tone convey his teasing scorn. "…smartass."

The tension dropped a notch, as it always did when Han got to name-calling. Sighing, Luke picked at a loose wire in the broken horizon-indicator. "Palpatine always said that I—"

"Palpatine was wrong," Han said flatly, knowing what the kid was going to say. "He spent your whole life tellin' you that you couldn't make a straight decision, I know that. I watched him. He went out of his way to create situations that proved his point, sayin' the only answer was to rely on him, listen to him, do what _he_ said. You really think every decision he made was right?"

Luke hesitated a long time. "I think he had the sharpest mind of anyone I ever knew."

"That's not the same thing."

Kid paused a while; if there was one thing you could say for him, it was that he _listened_. Even when it was hard to hear. It was one of the few things that they'd taught him for their own ends, that had backfired.

Eventually he sighed again, shaking his head. "I don't know why I'm here—why I stayed."

"Because here's exactly where you need to be, right now," Han said simply. "And some part of you knows that. It's a hard thing, to change tracks in life—even in the right direction. You need all the help you can get."

Luke finally met his eye. "You didn't seem to find it this hard."

Han fought to keep the tiny flip which fluttered inside his chest still, for fear the kid would pick up on it…because that was the closest that Luke had ever come to an admission. Instead he picked up the relay on the broken AH indicator and turned it over, eyeing the board as he sifted through the tools on the console.

"Yeah well, you know me. I make everything look easy."

Kid's face finally twitched to a brief smile as he looked away. "Smartass."

.

.

.

.

.

Luke made a point of looking Wedge Antilles in the eye as the pilot glanced up from where he was sat.

He'd gone wandering as the night had ticked over into morning, unable to sleep when Han had left. Gone looking for Rogue Group. Wedge was the one he'd found first, slouched across one of the low metal chairs that laughingly passed for a recliner in the pilot's ready-room close to the main hangar, his booted feet up on one of the squat mesh tables. Opposite him another survivor of the day's mission, Janson, lay flat out across several mesh seats, eyes closed and out for the count, a flimsyplast cup still in his hand, others already empty and upturned on the scratched table. To the opposite end of the table in a neat line close to Wedge's boots more cups were already filled, others drained and crushed flat.

Wedge squinted, head weaving slightly. He almost glanced away, then did a double-take at Luke's hacked-short hair.

"Nice buzz-cut," he said dryly.

"I'm sorry…about Klivian and Datch."

Wedge drained the plastic cup he held, and shrugged. "Not your fault."

Luke took a breath to speak—to tell the truth—but the complications of doing so, the amount of other people who would be dragged into this whole mess if it came out in the open, stopped him short.

"Pull up a chair," Wedge said. "Get yourself a cup. Get sixteen; eight a head."

It was the Corellian way, to drink to the dead. And if there was one thing Luke understood, it was how to load something stupid into your body to numb reality. He walked to the ramshackle liquor still which had always taken up the entire table to the rear of the pilot's ready-room, and filled a handful of small flimsyplast water cups with home-brew, picking them up with a finger in each full cup to carry them over to the low mesh table that Wedge sprawled across, needing two trips to make the count. Wedge had lifted his next flimsy cup before Luke was even seated. "To Tarrin Datch."

Lifting his first cup Luke drained it. The clear alcohol tasted like sweetened rocket fuel.

"And to Derek Klivian, smartass that he was." Wedge kicked the table as he drained his glass, and let out a brief cough. "You know, Klivian was ex-Imperial."

Luke nodded. "Han said. That was why y—" He broke off as he corrected himself. "Why he did the mission."

"For all the good it did him," Wedge observed quietly, eyes on Janson, who had started momentarily in his stupor, then settled back down to silence.

Luke opened his mouth to say they'd gotten off lightly…then clamped it shut, reaching out for another small cup. Wedge watched him closely, then let out a little huff.

"So…how'd you end up jumping ship from the Empire to the Alliance?"

Luke downed his drink to buy himself a few seconds thought. Home-made too fast and with limited ingredients, it blanked his mind of everything as he let out a half-breath, half-cough…but it was all that was on offer, and in truth he'd poured worse down his throat a few times, over the last year. "Who says I did?"

"Me," Wedge said with typical Corellian confidence, mind clearly scrabbling for something to take him away from the hard truth of why they were sat here, like this. "Based on your little performance in the flight-comp simulator I'd bet good credit that you were trained as a combat pilot, even if you're a Rebel spook now. A lot of the guys here are ex-Imperial trained, like…like Klivian was. Most pilots worth their salt learn young, and there aren't a lot of places where you can do full fighter pilot training. So either you started out with the Empire and jumped ship, or you trained with the Alliance in the first place…and since no-one knows you, you had to've trained with the Empire. Plus, you speak like a military pilot. You never say, 'I can't get the doo-what to talk to the box-thingy'. You say, 'The navicomp is out of synch with the Seinar array'."

"Seinar arrays are fitted to small freighters, not fighters. Fighters use their astro units."

"See," Wedge said simply, treating the knowledge as proof of his theory. He took another swig from his cup, and winced. "Plus we're a stubborn lot, us pilots. Takes us a hell of a long time to admit to ourselves that we might be on the wrong side—"

"Is there a right side?" Luke interjected.

"—of anything, let alone this," Wedge continued, his train of thought unbroken. "So what happened?"

"Maybe nothing happened, maybe it was me. Maybe it was just…death of a thousand cuts, you know?" He was silent a moment, in which he was aware of Wedge's booze-addled attention. Finally he sighed, dragging his hand back through his short-shorn hair more out of habit than anything else, because it sure as hell wasn't getting in his eyes any more. "There was this girl…"

"There always is, my friend," Wedge nodded sagely, his words slurring just slightly. "There always is."

"She's Imperial. That's not gonna change."

"Ouch."

"I didn't mean to…get involved. I just…she had information I needed and…" he trailed off, then added quietly, "and."

"Kinda stuff they don't really prepare you for when they're teaching you how to hack systems and fake cover stories."

"Except they do—they did. Don't get involved, everyone knows that. Lesson one; don't get pulled in." He paused, listening to his own words, aware that he'd broken one of his Master's prime laws first with Indo, then Han, then Mara…and now here, with the Rebels. _Don't get involved_. Lesson one: _Never_ _get involved_.

"So what happened?" Wedge's half-cut voice pulled him back to the moment.

Luke chewed at the dirty bandage around his thumbnail, feeling in that moment strangely safe to talk about it, wrapped about by the anonymity of Wedge's boozy, unconditional acceptance of vague or partial facts. "I don't know, I'm still working on that one. I know that if I'd stayed…I would have dragged her down with me. I know I didn't want to do that."

"Hn. That's actually a new one on me," Wedge nodded. "I've heard of agents burning out in the field, but…that's definitely a first."

 _Burning out._ Could you burn out at seventeen? Had he spent all his faith and his chances already? If he had, then where did he go from here? Because once he'd spent all his own, it seemed that he unwillingly spent the chances of others around him…only they didn't survive.

Palpatine was right; he was incapable of making the right decision alone. Someone always suffered, when he tried. Was there really only one place left to return to?

Wedge crushed his flimsy cup down onto the low mesh table with exaggerated gusto, and took another, lifting it up and out. "To Klivian and Datch."

"And Indo."

Wedge glanced to him. "Indo?"

"He died last year." Luke frowned, eyes down. "I knew him since I was seven. There are only five people I've known since I was that age…four of them are dead."

"What about your parents?"

"Dead. My real parents, my…my foster parents…and Indo, who took over as my guardian."

"Wow. Sorry."

Luke took a mouthful of the liquor. "People just…die around me."

Wedge fell to his own dark consideration as he swirled his cup. "People die. They just do."

"No, all those people…they died because of me. Because in one way or another, they got pulled in. They got involved. Others, too; Jorata, Kenobi."

"Maybe I shouldn't be sitting this close to you," Wedge said with typically blunt Corellian wit.

He had no idea how close to the truth he was.

"That's why I should leave. If people are gonna die around me, at least it should be ones I don't…" _care about._

The disconcerting, offset familiarity of the Star Destroyer suddenly loomed close, these flat, featureless gray walls a constant in his life since childhood. That customary background murmur of crew that reverberated off unadorned walls and hard floors in the bare-walled ante-room from the echoing hangar beyond, reverberating about the basic, utilitarian furnishings of hard mesh and scrubbed steel. The hum of the deckplates, the thrum of the air exchange…all so familiar. All turned inside-out here, with Rebel pilots in bright flightsuits walking and laughing aloud in the long corridors, whose scuffed walls and empty rooms spoke of under-manning and lack of funds. Yet it had heart, this ship. It had hope.

Perhaps that was why he felt he didn't belong.

He rose abruptly, draining the last flimsplast cup. "I have to go. Sorry about…sorry."

.

.

.

.

.

.

Luke glanced up as Leia entered the mess hall. It was mid-morning, carefully timed between shifts, so that there would be as few here as possible. He seldom came here anyway, and if he did it was generally with the Rogues, whom he'd purposely avoided today, though they didn't know he could have changed their mission's outcome. But the shakes and cramps—the legacy of throwing a mix of high-grade spice and too much home brew into his system yesterday—were making him twitchy, the small of his back aching as both liver and kidneys complained. He didn't want to interact with anyone, particularly the Rogues. Wanted to just drift, invisible and ignored, at the edge of all this…maybe that was the modus operandi of his whole life, to date.

Maybe Han was right—he didn't need their judgment; he judged himself readily enough.

It occurred to him now that Leia was wearing Jedi robes in soft tans and earthy browns. No cloak, but a hip-length cross-chested tunic and undershirt held by a wide belt, over which was strapped a narrower hide one, strung with pouches and set with a clip which held her lightsaber. Instinctively, his mind ran through the brief chain of movements necessary to yank her off-balance and pull the saber free for his own use. He forcibly curtailed the automatic mental continuation of moves, which would end with the saber's owner dead at his feet.

She closed, and pulled the chair opposite him out, to sit. "That's a serious face."

He tilted his head in a half-shrug of acknowledgment, not wanting to pursue the discussion.

"I just came from a comm meeting with the Council," Leia said, glancing down. "The TIE infiltration mission will be repeated in a few weeks time."

"Because it was such a success this time," Luke said laconically.

"The information they gathered was productive. It's enabled us to single out a new location for the next fact-finder, a static target."

"Kuat or Fondor?"

Leia studied him closely. "There's something there, isn't there? A super-weapon. Which one is it at?"

Luke shook his head. "Don't run the mission. It'll fail."

"Why?"

He glanced down, out of reasons, excuses or arguments. They wouldn't listen, anyway.

But he had the one reason they _would_ listen to, he knew. The one fact which would stop the mission ever flying. He could make it all academic, because he knew everything they needed…all he had to do was speak it out loud.

"You know, Han says I'm all or nothing," he murmured quietly.

"What do you say?"

"…It's more complicated than that." That word again; complicated.

"Han has a rare ability to distill things down to their basic elements. He assumes the rest of us see the universe that way, too."

"He's probably right, though."

"He generally is," Leia admitted.

"Drives you insane sometimes, doesn't he?"

"Do you…understand why he left, at Corsin?"

"I understand why everybody leaves."

She hesitated, then leaned in slightly. "You were dreaming again last night. A nightmare."

"I don't remember."

"Yes you do."

It had coalesced slowly as he'd slept, dredged from the darkest corners of his memory. A hulking, writhing mix made sharp by the dregs of spice he was no longer used to, and his own stupid decision to join Wedge and drink to the dead. The dream of a dream, conjured with perfect recall by his own treacherous psyche, even now.

He'd been seven years old when Palpatine had dragged him into the Throne Room for the first time, ridged nails scoring scarlet welts into the skin of Luke's arm. Seven years old and with the death of his parents still a fresh, raw wound that bled within, when he'd been locked, alone, bewildered and terrified, in that vast, dark, echoing space for the first time. He hadn't left the cavernous chamber again for four years. Four years of hunger and chaos and confusion. Four years in which he was ignored by all…save his Master. Years that sat with a cold stillness at his core, just waiting for weak moments like this.

Even then, Palpatine had been fiercely jealous of his advocate's attention—though in those early days it had been Luke himself who had suffered the consequences. It was only with time that the chastisement had become less direct and more…inventive.

But the nightmares…they came far sooner. At seven years old, he'd learned that even in the darkest night, there was always something darker. Something which crawled and scratched in the corners of that yawning space, unseen. It had taken him a long time to realize that those dense, writhing shadows which crowded that vast void each night were a canvas for his own mind. His own fears. His own knowledge of himself, as the years passed.

"They're just dreams." He wrung the words out with hoarse difficulty, face a mask.

"I saw…brief, broken images. You were a boy; seven..nine…ten, eleven. It changed from moment to moment. Never any older than eleven, though. You never got any older."

It was true. Caught within the dream, struggling wildly to get free, he'd never even realized it before. Her hand crept tentatively forward across the cool surface between them, and delicate fingers laid gently over his. "Tell me?"

He stared at the contact, trying to figure if it warmed or scalded. "There's nothing to tell."

"It was a room, a vast space, with large double doors…and everything beyond them was burned out by bright sunlight. But inside the chamber it was…empty. Bereft of anything. Just a gaping, dark chasm, so cold that your breath misted where you stood in the shadows…"

"I wasn't stood in the shadows," he admitted at last. "I was stood at the door. At the threshold."

 _The_ _warmth and safety of bright daylight just a single step away. One step, and he would stand in the light. One step, and he could run free._

"But you never cross. Because every time you try—?"

"Every time I try…the darkness seeps in around me. And then I hear it. I know it's there."

— _the rasping breath of the creature behind him, huge and heavy, locking his lungs and throat and paralyzing him in terror as inky pitch bled in all about him. Then the darkness would envelop him entirely, rendering him blind—and it would pounce. Raw power and dense weight, a wrenching body-blow which drove him to his knees as claws ensnared his skin and scalp from behind, yanking him bodily back—_

It was Leia who jolted, not himself. Leia who drew breath in a brief gasp, ribs rising, whole body twitching as if the imaginary was real. When she brought her eyes to him, wide with empathy and deepest, heartwood brown, he knew his own face was a mask, lax and neutral.

She was silent for long, respectful seconds, aware of what it had taken for him to admit that. Then she sighed, fingers tightening over his. "You know what it meant—what it represents—don't you?"

"Of course." His voice was low and quiet. "But that didn't mean that I had any way to counter it at the time…except to learn."

"Learn?"

"That the only answer was to become that which I feared."

"Who taught you that?"

When he didn't reply, she studied him for a long time. "Luke, the creature… it can drag you back into the darkness—but that isn't the same as stepping over that threshold yourself."

He didn't raise his head. "I just told you what I became—what I _chose_ to become."

"Did you? Did you ever once have that dream from the monster's point of view?"

"What would be the point? I had nothing to fear by then."

"Yet you still have the nightmare."

"That's just—" He broke off, realizing how telling his admission would be and unwilling to finish.

"Guilt." Leia said it for him, not letting him shy away from the truth. "About what happened. And that…that creature in the darkness, it wouldn't feel any such thing. Couldn't."

He tilted his head in a half-shrug of allowance. "Or maybe it could, but that wouldn't stop it from acting. Maybe that's worse."

"It's never worse to _feel_ , Luke."

He shook his head mutely again, no words to tell her how much such alien concepts went against everything he'd learned at his Master's hand. Everything he'd experienced, since.

"Here. I brought something to show you." She reached into the sleeve of the robe she wore and took out a lightsaber hilt, placing it on the table between them. Luke glanced from the unfamiliar hilt to her, uncertain. "Pick it up," Leia prompted.

He did so, turning it over in study. "This is old—Clone Wars era, more than likely."

"It is. You once said you could tell what the owner was like by holding his saber…what can you tell me?"

Luke looked askance. "I also said I could do the same by holding their boots."

"Look at it," Leia said gently.

He sighed and turned it over in his hands. "Clone Wars, triple crystal, man's…"

"No, you're telling me what you can _see_. I want to know what you can sense. What you can feel."

"I don't…" He broke off, unwilling to admit the truth.

Turned out he didn't need to.

"You don't use the Force any more," Leia nodded. "You think I didn't notice?"

"You've seen me use the Force."

"I've seen you _resort_ to it under pressure, or by reflex."

Luke kept his eyes down. "I…keep wondering if it's only certain facets of the Force that I want to avoid. Sometimes it feels like…in order for me to fulfill that part of my potential, others seem to have to suffer."

To the edge of his vision Leia stilled, her taut voice forced to casual tones. "You know, there was a faction within the Jedi Order who believed that the Force is neither good nor bad. It simply exists. It's how we use it—our intent and motives—which define it."

"If I use it for bad things, bad things will happen."

"You have to admit, it has an internal logic." She was being so careful, he knew, so painstakingly tolerant.

He laughed silently, a soft rocking of his shoulders. "I don't think Sith and Jedi are supposed to have discussions on the nature of the Force."

Leia smiled, settling her elbows on the mesh table. "Obi-Wan was always so formal when he taught."

"Palpatine was always so…calculating."

"I think Obi-Wan would have counseled you to follow your heart—" she broke off as she spoke the last word, blanching. "I'm sorry, I didn't…"

He shrugged, aware that she'd remembered the tattoo he'd had inked into his skin; _Occus Tor_ : Black Heart.

"Maybe…" she offered quietly. "..maybe that's only skin deep."

He remained silent, the argument that raged within too complex to give words to, and she waited, giving him the time with good grace before finally adding, "Obi-Wan always taught that we should trust our feelings."

"My… _feelings_ when you walked into the room just now were running through the best way to disarm you—then kill you with your own lightsaber."

"That's your head, not your heart. It's what you've been taught, not what you feel."

He placed the hilt back onto the table. "Still, I wouldn't be giving me a lightsaber, if I were you."

"You're not looking at it." When he remained adamant, she tried a small smile. "You have to admit, this is about as neutral a use of the Force as you could get. Please…" she glanced down to the saber.

Luke sighed, head tilting slightly as he closed his eyes, reaching out to rest the very tips of his fingers to the cool metal of the saber hilt. "A man…young…. He hadn't had it for that long, though it was well used; a few years, maybe." He opened his eyes. "Knowing you, probably Kenobi."

"No."

He glanced down with renewed curiosity, to rub his thumb lightly along the hilt close to the black strip-grips. "Man," he repeated. "Young, very strong, very confident. Sure of himself…"

"Go on?"

"He used this a lot. Had faith in it…in his right to use it." He frowned. "It didn't…did it belong to a Jedi?"

"For a while, though I suppose some might argue that." Leia nodded as realization lit Luke's face and he looked at the saber anew. "It was our father's, up until the time that he took on Darth Vader's persona."

Luke lifted it to turn it over in his hands, fascinated. Without asking he moved out to the side and stood, holding the hilt out nozzle down, to activate it. It kicked in his hand as a sky blue blade burst forth, a pulsing rush of contained energy which coruscated brightly.

For a moment he remained mesmerized, nothing else existing…then reality leached back in around him at the rapt silence, all awareness in the mess hall focused on him, and he deactivated it quickly, his tumult of feelings held in tight check.

Curious faces turned slowly away, their nerves offset by Leia's familiar presence; if their resident Jedi was at ease with this stranger activating a lightsaber in the mess hall, then that was good enough for them.

She waited a second longer, until the casual background murmur slowly bubbled back to its old level, before speaking to Luke.

"It's yours now," she said simply.

He shook his head. "I can't."

"He would have wanted you to have it."

"He wouldn't have given a damn." He felt instantly guilty for saying it—for denigrating Vader, in Leia's eyes; in his own. Out of nothing more than his deeply ingrained inability to trust. To believe in anyone.

Studying the saber in his hands, he remembered his momentary forgiveness of his father days earlier, for Leia's sake. She had wanted— _needed_ —faith in the man who had fathered them…as she needed it in him. Was it lack of judgment, both of their father and of himself…or was it something more? Something bigger?

"Tell me again," Leia said quietly, of his claim just days ago, "is this just a collection of wires in a metal tube…or is it a link with the past—a part of your own identity?"

"I never knew him," Luke murmured, hearing broken regret in his voice for the first time as his fingers tightened about the hilt. "I knew Vader, not Anakin Skywalker. You probably know more about him than I do."

"From what Obi-Wan said, I don't think he was much older than us when he carried this. When I hold it I always…I always sense the ghost of that man. Of Obi-Wan's friend and collaborator, who had a vision and a passion that he was willing to fight for, and defend. That's the man I try to think of, when I remember my father."

"It's not the man I remember," Luke whispered.

"Sometimes…you have to forgive, for no other reason than that any other choice will hurt you more. He can be your father without influencing your path. You take what you want from the past, Luke—what nourishes and aids you—it has no greater claim on you than that."

He looked to her, and she tried a brief, sad smile as she glanced to his chest. "Luke, you don't have to have that black heart."

His gaze dropped, thoughts mired. "It wasn't him who gave it to me."

"Palpatine," Leia murmured, understanding. "That's still in the past. I know you—I know you, now. You're strong enough to move beyond it…it has no claim on you any more."

Something flared and collapsed within him; he felt it quite distinctly. He lifted the saber hilt, holding the side of the smooth, cool metal to his forehead as he hesitated for a long time, eyes closed…

He knew she'd opened her mouth to speak but then had held silent, sensing _something_ , some unseen susurration that charged the air. Waiting…..

"Palpatine isn't dead," he said quietly. Just that. Three words, to tilt the universe on its axis and damn himself in the process.

"…What?"

"He isn't dead. He was. Va…my.. _our_ father gave his life to…to stop him. To keep him onboard the _Conqueror_ when it exploded at Corsin docks. But…there was a clone."

"A clone? So it's not him?"

"Palpatine transferred his consciousness. It's a Sith technique, you must have heard of essence transferral?" She stared blankly as he continued, hearing the validations stream from his own mouth. "It's not that surprising if you didn't. There were no complete texts, nothing to…to make any of us think that it was possible—that he had even begun to work towards it, let alone accomplish it so completely."

"It's truly him?" Leia asked uneasily.

"He's everything he was," Luke said quietly, eyes down as he nodded somberly. "Capable of everything he was. Nothing's diminished."

"When?" It seemed all she could ask.

"You remember the…" He was about to name the skirmish over Rhen Var as a timeframe, but realized instantly that he would be giving away far more than when, and broke to an awkward silence. "A few months before we met on Rishi. I didn't…know about it before then. We discovered a cloning facility inside an Imperial storehouse, when we went to raid it. Brie and…the Imperial remnant, they needed a Sith to open the seals inside the storehouse—they thought a full set of military access codes had been stored in there by Palpatine before his death, that's all. I was going to do that one thing for them, and then ship out of there. That was the deal. Then… _then_." He whispered the last word quietly, no more needing to be said.

He could sense her mind grasping for solid ground, feel her bewilderment; she was lightheaded; sick. Stunned.

"He's already reabsorbed several of the larger Imperial factions, including Kuat and Fondor," Luke said into the silence. "He's using the shipyards to complete weapons and superstructures…" He broke off awkwardly, stopping himself before he said more. "Han was right, you see; I never did give a damn about the Empire…but it wasn't the Empire I've betrayed, in being here."

Astute brown eyes refocused on the moment, studying him. "But you stayed here anyway. Why?"

"Stupid reasons." He shook his head, feeling the weight of it all anew. "I should go back."

"No!" Her resolve strengthened, concern a brand against his guilty mind, after all he'd withheld. "Luke, why would you go back?"

She didn't understand; couldn't. "He's…always been... Would you have ever turned on Kenobi?"

"Master Kenobi wasn't—" She visibly stopped herself, knowing it was an old argument, and wouldn't be settled now, like this. "Stay here—stay. You're safe, you're—"

"And bring him down on you?"

"He won't come. He has others he can train, other Hands. You said so yourself."

"That's not the point. That's never the point."

"Then what is?"

Luke stared, amazed that she had to ask. "The point is, I left. Someone who he personally trained and trusted has betrayed him. You think he'll let that pass? Because I can tell you for a fact, he won't. I can cite ten cases where myself or another Hand was sent to put just that kind of situation to rest, on far lesser incidents. I can tell you without hesitation that he's already looking for me. I know him. This isn't about me, it's about his ego. He won't let it rest."

"Luke…" Leia paused for a long time. "You understand, I have to pass what you've just told me on. I have to tell Mon."

"Tell her, for all the difference it'll make."

"He's in command of Ghost Fleet, isn't he?"

"Ghost Fleet is nothing—it's just a means to an end. He's reuniting the Empire, reclaiming what he's lost. Strengthening it." He let out a brief, taut breath. "He _will_ come for you."

She reached out to rest a hand on his arm. It was warm, strong; trusting. "We can stop him. Together, we—"

"I can't do that," he whispered near-silently, eyes lifting to hers in pleading regret. "You don't turn against your own Master, ever."

"Luke—"

"Don't have faith in me, Leia. I told you that before. I can't help you—not in this." His head dropped, hands raking across his rough-shorn hair, eyes on the lightsaber she'd given him. His father's lightsaber.

" _Occus Tor_ ," he whispered near-silently. It had seemed so clear once, that claim: Black Heart. Declaration and defense, both. Utterly unbreachable.

Like his father.

His father, who'd abandoned everything—every human frailty—in exchange for the cold isolation and searing power that Darkness granted every Sith. His father…who had broken every vow and turned on the Master who had taught him. Which was integrity, and which betrayal? Which was the weakness, and which the strength?

Because Force help him, he truly didn't know any more.

.

.

.


	24. Chapter 24

.

* * *

.

•-:¦:-:••:-:¦:-•:-:¦:-•.•:*¨¨*:•. .•:*¨¨*:•. .•:*¨¨*:•-•:-:¦:-•:-:¦:-•

It's finally happened—I've taken my first step into a larger universe!

No, not that…I've joined Twitter :D Look me up as Blank101 (#PaxBlank) and say hello ^_^

-•:-:¦:-•:-:¦:-•-•:-:¦:-•:-:¦:-•-•:*¨¨*:•. .•:*¨¨*:•.-•:-:¦:-•:-.•:*¨¨*:•. .•:*¨¨*:•-•:-:¦:-•:-:¦:-•-•:-:¦:-•:-:¦:-•

.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER 24**

.

.

Luke returned to his room in a daze, thoughts abuzz after telling Leia the truth. Her offer of solace—that the claim of a black heart he'd had inked into his skin was, like the tattoo itself, only skin deep—rang over and over like a claxon in his racing thoughts, tumbling in a maelstrom. But every time he slowed in consideration, realization of what he'd done in admitting to Palpatine's existence came rushing back in a blinding blow, leaving him breathless and dizzy, heart racing.

He closed his eyes, hand to his mouth, and the memory of Han's face long ago came to mind, solemn and serious: _"All or nothing, remember? That's who you are. It's who you've had to be, just to survive…"_

It took a moment for the significance of that to truly sink in…another, for wider implications to follow, driven home by the memory of his Master's face, ocher eyes aglow, a subtle spear of disappointment and demand coloring his voice so that his words would be remembered.  
 _"Do you feel nothing—no desire to uphold my faith in you? Don't you see, child? I ask this not_ _of_ _you, but_ _for_ _you, because without me you are nothing…absolutely nothing."_

The one thing which had defined his identity and sense of worth—the foundation on which he had built his entire life's actions to date—had been his loyalty to his Master.

" _Will you always be my servant, child?"  
"Always, Master."  
_That same punch of pride and pain still raked through his thoughts at the memory of Palpatine's rasping reply. _"There, child…_ _there_ _is your true worth."_

And once again it hit like a blow to the gut; the recognition that his Master had been right all along: Luke remained, always, the profound disappointment.

.

.

It trickled into his unsettled sleep, that particular unique acuity, stirring deep consciousness so that by the time he was awake it was almost upon him, seeping into the same space in his awareness that the Force inhabited, however tamped down.

Palpatine. His sense stretched thin, searching….

Luke stilled completely mind and body, like a nocturnal animal beneath a bright light, as the searching sense passed over and through him, a crackling susurration of charged static….. and onward without pause, trailing like nails across skin and leaving behind the ghost of an image: his Master, eyes closed, one hand outstretched, fingers spread wide.

He let out a slow breath as it moved past, still searching, scattered wide in the darkness—

A second later, freezing the breath he'd softly loosed, it coalesced:

A presence, part memory, part awareness. Mara, her hair a flare of warm amber, forest green eyes warm for once, utterly without judgment. A deep thrum fired within him, pain and passion both… but already the moment was crumbling, the heat fading, leaving behind the trace of a memory. The soft brush of remembered lips breathed against his in a kiss barbed with that same familiar sting which even now jolted his chin and opened his eyes to the cold darkness of the empty room, all hope of sleeping gone.

And it was so obvious. So obvious that he'd been wasting his time trying to look for her, trying to keep that fact hidden. Because it could never have come about until this precise moment. She'd been hiding her presence entirely, but in that split-second of acuity the path was lucid; instantly traceable and…oddly cruel; he didn't know why. But that feeling bled through the Force, knotting within his chest.

Rising, he dressed in silence and glanced about his room within the medicenter. Taking the blanket from the bed, he rolled it to carry with him as he set out.

.

The Force thrummed. It hummed with…what?

Once he would have paused, would have given it free rein and tumbled willingly back into it, weightless, willing to listen. But he didn't. Didn't want it, didn't want to hear. Didn't want to pay the costly price that it exacted in return: knowledge.

Was this blind faith? Blind need? Or simply, willfully, blind. Yet he felt on some level ready, balanced. Prepared to move with the moment, to live it. So much turned on this. The Force practically vibrated from second to second beneath its pressure—or was it his own anticipation?

What did he say? He'd left because there was nothing left to be said that wouldn't wound her in some way, and he couldn't do that. The thought of green eyes glassy with tears fired a brief, all-consuming wrench inside, a pain so intense that it felt physical, making him bend slightly as he grabbed for the wall to steady himself, eyes closing. The image of those same eyes hardened by accusing hatred made his chest burn, breath stilling.

" _Don't you dare make my decisions for me!"_ The fire that was so much a part of her had shone in that moment, and the memory of it pulled him back from the brink of misgivings now.

He was right to have left. Right not to have given her any explanation of why. If he could see what she couldn't—wouldn't—then surely he should make the decision for her.

The irony of that, of having claimed so often that no-one had the right to do the same for him in his own life, didn't escape him. Was that growth? It didn't feel like enlightenment; it only burned beneath his ribs, leaving an empty ache.

He was walking again. He knew exactly where she was now, a trail so clear within the Force that even rejecting any connection, his feet still moved of their own volition. The door to her quarters was closed, the room empty. But he'd not intended to enter anyway; had known that it wouldn't be here that they would speak. For her safety in anonymity, yes, but also because…just because.

Pulling the stylus from his pocket, he wrote in small letters just above the door release:

' _The bolt-hole'_

Then walked away.

.

He slowed in the deserted side-corridor, a twitch in his lip revealing his brief, fragile amusement that it would be here. All these potential outcomes, a galaxy of possibilities, all tracing back to here; the tiny, cramped space of a droid maintenance access tucked away behind an obscure TVG store deep within the bulk of the massive Destroyer.

 _The bolt-hole_. It had been the same on every Star Destroyer they'd travelled on together. The same hidden, cramped space that they always retreated to, to hold the galaxy at bay.

He crawled inside and unrolled the blanket in the familiar light of the blinking system display, then settled down and waited, as Mara had many times waited for him. A hundred memories crammed into a space precisely the same as this one, every detail—the curve of the inner wall, the cramped, low roof, the hum of service pipes and power conduits, the soft luminosity of semi-light—so many moments of their time together conjured back to life.

He was still adrift within them almost an hour later, when the small access hatch slid silently back.

Mara entered, forced to do so on her knees, so low was the cramped space. She stared at him, eyes searching his, expression a jumble of so many inextricably entwined emotions. For a moment of time each held still, tense and unsure.

It wasn't a decision on either of their parts; no premeditated plan, just innate response. Still on her knees in the low space Mara leaned forward, arms outstretched, and he rose up to meet them, on his knees, arms about her, face to the crux of her neck and shoulder. They remained still and silent for a long time, hidden from the galaxy, each wrapped about the other, eyes closed. He breathed her in; the scent of her, the soft slip of her hair across his face, the sound of her breath, the staccato of her heart against his chest.

And suddenly it wasn't enough—how could it be. How could anything be?

He turned her head to kiss her, fingers threading through her hair, feeling the warmth that flared through mind and body and soul in equal measure wash away months of doubt in the space of a single heartbeat—

But there, in the last second, it came: the sting that curled the edge of every single kiss. The tinge of dark portent which he'd hoped might have somehow drained away.

He flinched, masking the recoil behind a greater move. But she knew and leaned back, the question already on her lips. Too heady to care he kissed it quickly away; kissed her forehead, kissed her hair. Breathed her in again, eyes closed.

Laughing silently she leaned back, fingers in his short-cropped hair. "Look at you! You look so different—your eyes!"

He blinked; he'd forgotten entirely. "They sluiced my eyes…is it weird?"

Her open smile lit her entire face. "No. Well, yes." She leaned back a little further in consideration without letting him go. "You look…younger. More temperate."

"Great, that's what every man wants to hear," he said wryly. "'You look very _temperate'_."

She laughed, and it felt to Luke like he'd been waiting to hear that sound for so very long. Felt like he could breathe again—could finally pull air into his lungs and breathe. He knew in that moment that nothing else would ever do.

"No, I didn't mean that at all," she grinned. "You look good. You look great. Less reserved, more approacha—"

"Oh please stop," he said dryly.

She did. Instead she tilted her head in invitation, and he gathered her tighter. It was less frenzied this time, when their lips met, more sure. Still, an undercurrent of ambiguity ran beneath for Luke, an echo of that heavy portent which singed every kiss and sounded only when they were close. He pushed it aside, the pang of unease which hollowed out deep within him easy to ignore in the face of this all-consuming closeness.

He scattered light kisses along her brow and the hollow of her eye, drifting lower to her throat as she lifted her head, arching her neck, her pulse trembling against his lips, skin warm and soft.

In this moment he wanted this alone—to hide here, and hold her. He needed nothing else. This was enough. This was everything, and he'd give anything to protect it—everything.

It was the briefest mental touch on her part, a whisper within a sigh that spoke to him alone, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. No words—nothing so pedestrian between them—but the barest fraction of a snatched sense within the Force, a moment conjured from the past resonating within both their memories of this secret, huddled space—of heated bodies and broken breaths, passion fed and sated. He sensed the brief rush that trembled as the memory of it travelled through her, mind and body both.

And those forest green eyes stayed on him, lit by the knowledge that he'd sense and share the memory, rekindled in perfect, persuasive detail.

By the heat she knew it would ignite within him.

Maybe because he wanted it, because he craved it, because he needed it more than anything else in his life, ever, he willingly let it take him. Let it transport him back to that time and place and fervor and simplicity. Let it wash over him and carry him in its reckless, headlong rush, anchored to reality by the barest sensations of breath on skin.

She leaned in, and this time the kiss was more, heated and ripe and bursting with promises. The weight of her forward momentum pushed him onto his back as his arm wrapped about her slender body, taking her with him. Russet hair fell across his face, soft as gossamer, releasing another rush of locked-away memories; intimate moments that tumbled free, feeding the fire. The kiss quickened and deepened, gaining intent. She slid across him, body pressed close, one knee rising and bending to tuck in close against his side as she heaved against him. They moved in perfect synch, bodies remembering intimately what their minds had invested so much in refusing to acknowledge. The heat of her against him made his entire body pulse, all logic reduced to a static haze of insignificance.

His lips moved over the hollow of her neck, a slow trail of tongue-wet kisses, teeth gently grazing heated skin as she arched in anticipation and gasped, mind sparking. Cool fingers ghosted about his neck, their movement erratic, their touch electric as she fumbled his shirt open to slide her hands beneath and draw her hunger upon his skin, trailing randomly across his stomach and chest, lighting every nerve.

"Luke…"

She murmured his name, breath broken and raw, and reality fractured beneath the heady need that reverberated between mirrored minds and souls, carrying them effortlessly within its escalating desire.

…

..

.

He barely flinched as Mara reached casually out to run the palm of her hand across his short-cropped hair, before she pulled the collarless shirt she'd stripped free in a frenzy an hour ago back over her head.

Her words were muffled by the act, voice and body utterly relaxed. "Why am I thinking you probably did that yourself, in some fit of temper?"

"Because I did."

She nodded slowly, pushing no further.

"I'm getting used to it, now," she murmured, letting her hands drop within each other where she sat cross-legged to study him as he lay on the blanket, his shirt still crumpled where it had been abandoned earlier. Glancing around, she dragged her cast off boots to herself and, still sat, twisted in the cramped space to pull them on. Without misgivings she settled back against him, dressed now, her head on his chest, hand falling to rest across the tattoo he'd had inked there in some distant moment of bleak misery that couldn't touch them here and now.

"Getting used to what, the hair?"

"And your eyes. I saw you a week or so ago, working on that old freighter in the repair hangar, but I was never close enough to see your eyes."

"I saw you weeks ago," Luke said. "In the hangar. You didn't see me, but I knew it was you."

She smiled, leaning in against him, seeking closeness as much as he did. "I couldn't believe it when I saw you. I didn't tell Palpatine for days, because I can only risk short-burst transmissions and I wanted all the facts before I did."

And with a silent surge his whole life fell heavy about him, flooding in even here, to press with suffocating weight. The searching presence of his Master that he'd felt earlier that evening. The immediate mental image of Mara following in its wake.

His voice was flat when he spoke. "What did you tell him?"

"All I could find out was that you were badly injured when you arrived, and you'd been transferred here from another ship—and that it was being kept quiet. The brass know who you are, don't they? But from what I can tell the standard crew has no idea."

"Is that why you're here—to bring me back?"

She shook her head without pulling back, voice still casual. "I didn't even know you were here until I saw you. Palpatine had planned to place me as a deep cover agent even before…before his assassination."

Before Corsin…when Palpatine had first found out about Leia. "Your mission…was it to get close to the Jedi, Leia Skywalker?"

She frowned, finally arching back slightly to lift her eyes to him. "No. No, my standing mandate is to avoid her as much as I can."

"Well then why you?"

"Because I was the only one who could get my intentions past a Jedi, and so remain under deep cover. Then…I saw you." Her voice was trust and confusion in equal measure, and though her sense in the Force was entirely concealed, he didn't need it to hear the edge of nerves in her fast-spoken words. She didn't know what to think—only what to hope. "I figured we'd had parallel missions and your steaming off of the _Executor_ was a part of that, but it had gone off-course, so you'd ended up here. But I didn't know if you were correcting for that, or..." She smiled, shaking her head as she settled to his chest again, hair sliding softly across his skin. "Are you going to tell me what's really going on before you go back?"

He glanced down, ribcage tightening. "I'm…not going back."

She slid subtly straighter to look at him more fully. "What?"

"I'm not going back."

He watched her brow twitch briefly as she tried to comprehend. "I don't…are you…is this a mission? I didn't think Palpatine would have doubled us up, but you came onboard unconscious, so I though yours might've gone off-course. But I'm not…he would have told me if—"

"It's not a mission, you know that. I left."

She stared, eyes narrowing a fraction. "…To come here?"

"No. I was injured trying to get away at Rishi. They helped me."

"And you let them?"

"I was unconscious."

She'd straightened to a sitting kneel, the act putting her beyond the reach of his arm about her shoulder, so that it fell away empty. "And now?"

He said nothing. What was there to say? She knew it all, in truth—but then Palpatine had always fostered such willing denial in them all.

Her face dropped to the barest scowl, eyes hard. "You need to remember who you are, Luke Antilles."

"I know who I am."

"And where your loyalties lie."

"I know that, too. I would never—" He broke off…because he _had_ betrayed Palpatine; had already told Leia that his Master was still alive, knowing that Palpatine was using the element of secrecy as part of his plan.

He pushed himself to sitting, dragging his hands down across his face as he searched for the words to explain what he couldn't even admit to himself. "I can't go back. I can't go back to all that. I was…suffocating there."

"He needs you."

"He doesn't need me. He doesn't need anyone."

"The Sith Rule of Two—"

"Let him teach Shira. She wants to learn, she wants that power and status. Let her have it. Let her earn it."

"Shira's too ambitious. I'll go back and stand myself before I'll—"

"No!" He'd taken her arm, hand tightening to the point that she tensed. He let out a breath, forcing his voice calmer. "Mara, stay. Don't go back, stay with me."

"Here? I don't even know what you're asking…and I don't think you do, either. Luke, these people are our enemy. They're the _enemy_."

"I know, I know that. They're just…they're not all…" He trailed to silence, hand falling away; what was he even trying to say?

"Do you actually think—?"

She broke off, as true realization hit—and her face in that moment was everything he'd feared, easily sufficient that he felt his resolve waver…

But it was that word again, that held him caged: complicated.

There were people here to whom he was bound, by blood or friendship. It made him itch beneath his own skin to admit that—went against a lifetime of lessons hard learned—but now, faced with the moment… who was he betraying? He didn't even know, any more. All he knew was that he couldn't breathe, couldn't look her in the eye…couldn't let her go. He scrabbled straighter to sit on his legs in the cramped space. "We'll leave, then. Go someplace else."

She leaned closer to place one hand to his cheek, voice quiet but adamant. "Luke, come back. I'll come with you, right now. I was told to stay, but I'll come with you, right now. Please?"

His head lowered, because if he looked at her, he'd crumble. "I'll go anywhere with you—anywhere but there."

Her hand fell free and she slid it into the neck of the loose collarless shirt she wore. Slim fingers moved to the plain cord he'd seen about her neck, searching for something, tracing it to her back. She slipped it to the front, still looped through the cord.…

Luke felt his whole body deflate as he saw it; the battered, worn roll of the ring that he'd made for her from a foil wrapper in a hidden bolt-hole exactly the same as this one—an eternity ago, it seemed.

"Did you mean it," she asked gently. "Did you mean any of it, when you put this ring on my finger?"

He looked down, chest aching. "You know I did. It was real, in my eyes."

"But they were such different eyes, back then…weren't they? Was it all just another disguise—was any of it truly real at all?"

"I told you at the time that it was the most sincere and genuine thing I'd ever done… I meant it."

"But you don't any more…as simple as that."

He looked away in guilty avoidance. Every single problem that had crowded into his life before he'd left had followed him here, then mushroomed out into a whole new galaxy of complexity. And how—how did he deal with this?

Mara leaned in to rest her forehead against his, voice a whisper. "If you meant it, prove it. Do this for me—come back."

"You're asking the one thing I can't do."

"I'm asking the one, single thing that you _have to_ do. You know that." She sighed, but the silence was laden with regret rather than anger, so that when she finally spoke, it was quietly. "Palpatine's reply to my message was an order to get you back there, by any means. I didn't understand he meant, not entirely..."

He shook his head, his words as much an appeal as a warning. "Don't. Don't try."

Mara glanced down, licking her lips. "Don't make me."

Luke shook his head, nothing left to say as the moment slowed to silence. All persuasions were exhausted, all procrastination spent on both sides, leaving each aware that this was it; this was their last moment cocooned in willing blindness.

He leaned forward to kiss away her frown as she recognized the same… "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

This was it. This was Mara leaving him. This was him, letting her. Of all the ways that he'd thought it would end—in anger and acrimony and accusations—this hadn't once factored. This composed, resigned acceptance. This wrench so deep that he couldn't bear to let himself feel it, let alone fathom it.

She leaned forward and kissed him one last time. Softly; hesitantly. For a brief, precious second everything else still melted away beneath the soul-deep pull of even this tentative touch…and then it bled in; that bloom of Darkness—and with it, Shira's mocking words:

" _She'll break your heart—she will, because you'll break hers."_

.

.

.

He made his way back to the medicenter slowly, circling across the Destroyer to Han's quarters, where he'd stood at the end of the corridor but gone no closer, staring at the closed door until someone finally walked down the corridor, glancing quizzically at him. Then he turned about and walked to the internal maintenance hangar to stare at the _Falcon_ , now repaired sufficiently to leave. Mulling that fact over in his mind for a long time.

He could take Mara away by force…but then what? He couldn't keep her that way—didn't want to. She wouldn't be swayed. He remembered that willing blindness that had held him shackled to Palpatine so well; you couldn't be _persuaded_ out of it, it was too deep and too much a part of you. It had taken life-changing, soul-wrenching events to open his own eyes to what Palpatine truly was. And even now…

He let out a long, slow sigh, chest aching. He couldn't be the one who did that to her. Couldn't rip her apart and see her bleed by his own hand.

Couldn't turn her over to the Rebels. Couldn't see her go back to Palpatine. Complications. _Complications_

And one way or another, he had to separate her from Leia. Despite Mara's claim that she was here as a sleeper agent with a brief to specifically avoid Leia, he knew Palpatine. Knew how his mind worked. Mara would be given no more information than she needed, at any given time. The supposed reason for sending Mara—that she was the only one who could hide her intentions from a Jedi—was valid, but…no. No. This was a situation just waiting to explode. And as much as he kept on saying that he wouldn't get involved in this war… No; there were some things that he couldn't ignore.

He considered that as he walked slowly back—seemed he did have some kind of conscience, after all.

.

When he'd finally returned to the medicenter, Leia and six guards were already waiting.

.

.

So now Luke sat in silence on the uncomfortable upright chair in the detention center, his wrists bound by a set of heavy cabled restraints. He wouldn't have thought that the night could've gotten much worse when he'd left Mara…

He had to appreciate the irony. The efficacy of having his own technique used against him—the one that Palpatine taught all his Hands, it seemed: Use everything, to accomplish a mission. Use every single trick, even your own feelings. If the only card you have left to play is your own life, then be prepared to gamble it without hesitation, to finish the job.

Mara hadn't been able to persuade him, and she knew that she couldn't take him by force…

This was all she had left.

He could tell them the truth about why they'd seen fit to bring him here… But to do so would incriminate Mara instead, and she knew how he felt about her…so she was gambling that he would protect her—despite everything. It didn't matter that he recognized that. It didn't matter how she felt about him. She had a mission, a goal to complete, and this was the cost.

How did he do that, Luke wondered of his Master—how did he twist everything to his own will so completely and utterly that even now, knowing all this…Luke felt no anger at the man who'd done it. No resentment. Just an empty, amused acceptance at having been so perfectly played, on so many levels.

He'd been angry, at first. It was his natural, go-to state, after all. But underneath Leia's stony displeasure when he'd finally arrived back at his quarters in the medical bay, had been a clear note of anxiety. Her fraught sense of near-panic had held him in check when she'd stepped forward from the doors of the medicenter.

"What have you done," she'd asked too quickly. "Where have you been?"

He'd slowed to a stop in silence, instinctively reluctant to tell her.

The man beside her was wearing a captain's rank and insignia, and had stepped quickly forward, hand an inch from the firearm at his hip as if it would make the slightest bit of difference, voice nervous and determined.

"Luke Antilles, you are bound by law to stand down, under suspicion of two counts of murder…"

He'd let them put the binders on without argument if it reassured them, his mind elsewhere, racing to connect events with insufficient facts. And just as it had been on the ISD _Steadfast_ above Rishi months ago, the easiest way to get all those facts was to go along with those who held them…for now.

.

.

Leia sat on the hard chair in the cramped confines of the detention cell, gaze on her brother, where he sat to the opposite side of the table. His own eyes and attention were fixed on the middle distance, mind a shrouded undercurrent which skewed wildly between disjointed speculation and shrewd analysis, its calculating rush belying his unnaturally still body.

She had argued not to bring him here, but Captain Hollis had been adamant. And despite Leia's initial fear that Luke would react as he had in the past when he'd believed himself cornered and under threat, in fact he'd been docile and compliant throughout, entering the cell in the detention center without incident. Barely reacting as the door had locked behind him…which worried her far more than any outburst could have.

"Luke…Luke?" She paused until he came out of his fugue-like state to glance at her. "Tell me what you're thinking?"

He said nothing, but his eyes drifted again, thoughts racing. He was angry—she could sense that, within the static of his shields. At someone…at himself. That, it always seemed, was when he was truly dangerous. Enough to kill two men earlier tonight, with neither reason nor provocation? She didn't think so.

But they'd given him reason to react now, in bringing him here like this.

Had they known what they were doing, whoever had really killed those men and forced this situation? Was it random events, or had someone unknown locked everyone into this path _specifically_ to flip the switch from man to Sith, focusing diffuse potential into sharpening intent?

Could even they control it, now that they had?

"You understand why we did this," Leia tried gently. "Why we had to react. Two men are dead."

"You think I'd kill two people for no reason?"

"I think we need to remove you as a suspect from the investigation, so that everyone can relax."

He stared too long, that unreadable expression masking so much…

"Let me save you the trouble. I killed them."

"… What?"

"I killed them. It was me—I did it."

She stared, trying to fathom what was going on here. "Why?"

His chin lifted a fraction, words clipped. "I'm Sith—isn't that enough for you?"

"No."

"It was enough to bring me down here."

"We just want to know where you were, Luke."

"And I just told you." His eyes flicked briefly to the security lens in the corner of the cell.

"I don't…" She hesitated, bewildered by his abrupt confession, then shook her head rapidly. "If you were going to kill them, why didn't you use the Force? Why make a weapon?"

"I don't draw on the Force, you know that."

"A Sith would."

"Don't second-guess me—that's a dangerous game." He growled the words, becoming more antagonistic by the moment.

"You'll cram lethal amounts of spice into your body to feed some imagined addiction, but deny yourself that contact? It's a part of you, Luke, it's the blood in your veins, it's the oxygen that feeds you. If you deny yourself that then you're not truly alive at all."

The edge of one lip quirked up in a self-depreciating smile. "And yet I can't quite seem to die."

She stared, eyes searching, senses halted against the smooth planes of those diamond-shields… Power against power, she had no hope of outdoing a Sith. But there were subtler things; the gentler, more empathic awareness of every single moment that she'd spent trying to unravel her brother. The emotion which resonated behind that flat expression, the tilt of his head, the set of his mouth, the tightness of his shoulders… "What are you so afraid of, Luke?"

It wasn't them, she knew. It wasn't the binders or the guards. There was something bigger, here. Something dense and deeply-set…

His eyes rose to hers, the pale, lucent blue of cloudless skies reflected in deep ice. "Your Force…it's compassion and empathy and tolerance and benevolence. Mine…mine is bitter and rancorous and howling for blood. Any blood. It doesn't care. It sees the pulse at your throat as you speak right now and it screams at me rip it open, just to stop you."

Leia's hand rose to her neck without thinking at the undisguised truth in his level words, as he continued with glacial calm.

"It would be so easy, you see. Sharpen intent to a razor's-edge and rip it across your throat, fast as the thought. Bright scarlet pumping free…the pattern it would make on the ground and the floor, as you fell back away from me. Darkness loves that color. That potential. It's playing the moment out in my head again and again, as I'm looking at you now. You're looking at my eyes and seeing sky blue, and all I see when I look at you is dark ruby, pulsing, calling me on."

She held her breath, hand to her throat…and he smiled.

"You asked why I hold it back, rein it in. Why I deny it. I could walk out of here right now and you wouldn't have a hope of stopping me. Your only chance might be to blow this entire ship to smithereens, scatter the fragments to the fringes of the galaxy, and pray. Because some days…some days, when it's howling for blood, I don't think even that would stop me."

She stared, breathless for long moments…then gathered her thoughts, voice a whisper. "Then why are you still here?"

He smiled enigmatically. Chillingly. And it would be so easy to see only that cold ice blue—but there was something else in its depths, some tiny shard of vulnerability…

"You want us to do what you can't quite bring yourself to," Leia said, mind clearing. "You're trying, a day at a time. Anyone can see that. But you can't quite bring yourself to overcome that edge—that desire to survive. So you want someone—anyone—to do it for you." The final realization snapped home, freezing Leia's chest and laying cold in her gut. "You want someone who _can_ do it. That's why you're here, with me. You need someone with equivalent Force abilities to you, because only they could overcome that survival instinct and…and kill you."

He brought his bound hands up, resting his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers before his mouth, so that when he finally spoke his quiet words were muffled slightly. But their dangerous edge remained—and for the first time, she saw within that icy control the flash of something hard and grim and razor-sharp.

"Welcome to my life. And now I'm asking you, as your brother, to end it. Because if you don't…" His head tilted barely a fraction, but Leia felt as if the universe itself was dragged into alignment. "If you don't—if you try to hold me—I will move like death itself through this ship and all the people on it. Without thought. Without a moment's hesitation. As your brother, I'm warning you what the Sith before you is about to do."

She stared, seeing the man facing her as never before. "You wouldn't do that," she husked.

"If I don't then Palpatine will, now that he knows I'm here." Luke spoke with absolute, quiet confidence. "This way is better. Cleaner. Like a thornbird's sting; you pull it out in one fast move, barbs and all, or the rot will set in and kill you."

"You're not a poison."

"You need to go away and think about what I've just said. You need to act on it…before I do."

.

.

.

Alone after Leia's withdrawal Luke sat in silence, trying not to think. Because if he thought, he'd realize what he needed to do. Realize that everything he'd said hadn't been his frustration or disappointment or the desire to make her leave so that she wouldn't see him like this any longer… It was true. It was all true.

" _This way is better. Cleaner. Like a thornbird's sting; you pull it out in one fast move, barbs and all, or the rot will set in and kill you."_

That fact remained, irrelevant of who applied it, or how. One way or another, by his own actions or those of others seeking to control him, he could only ever be a threat. He had no place here—that was what Mara had backed him into realizing. Into acting upon. Given that, what they thought of him here—any of them—was immaterial.

Had he been her mission all along, then—insurance laid in place? Or had it been a fortuitous accident that his Master had played to, rearranging his assets to their maximum advantage? Luke had to admit, even at the sharp end of the sting, it was superbly played. Because even now, knowing it all, he _would_ protect Mara as long as he could. Yes, it was foolish and gullible and—

And there it was. He felt his lip twitch into a smile, at the recognition—that sting in every kiss: betrayal. Only not—not really. She'd remained loyal to the same things throughout the time he'd known her. It was Luke who had changed, not Mara.

Shira's words came back to him, prophetic. " _She'll break your little black heart. She will—because you'll break hers."_

Had the words played out at last, then? Not quite. She hadn't broken his heart…because he still cared. He still felt…felt enough to want to protect her, even now. So then what—

He straightened when he sensed Han in the corridor outside—only Han could be equal parts outrage and concern at the same time—and felt his mouth twitch to a brief smile as the cell door slid back and Han burst in, a whirlwind of frustrations.

"You _killed_ two guys?!"

Han threw the livewire-taizer across the table, giving his Luke first glance at the weapon he was supposed to have used. It looked jerry-rigged, cobbled together out of the kind of junk that you'd find on any engineer's workbench in any hangar bay. _Nice touch, Mara._

He glanced up. "Apparently."

"Don't fucking _apparently_ me. Looking after you is like looking after someone else's attack dog, you know that? I spend every waking moment wondering just what's gonna set it off this time, and wishing to all hells I knew the commands to make the damn thing lay down or walk to heel just once in a while. Wishing I had a leash to put round its neck!"

"Are you finished?"

"No I'm not finished! I knew Harken."

Luke glanced down at the taizer for a second, jaw flexing. "I'm sorry."

"Copishit."

Han settled just slightly though, making a double-take of Luke where he sat calmly to the table, binders still about his wrists. Luke held his eyes for long moments…but just couldn't stop his head from turning down and away…

And Han knew. "You didn't kill them."

Luke kept his gaze down. "You have another suspect?"

"You didn't kill 'em. You'd be out of that chair yelling validations at me right now, if you had."

"You want me to start yelling?" He met Han's eyes, voice flat. "I can do that."

"No, I want you to tell me why you're all-hells-bent on taking the rap for this."

"Maybe because I killed them."

Han stared, eyes narrowed. "What were their names?"

"…What?"

"You heard me, what were their names?"

"I didn't enter into casual conversation with them, I just killed them."

"Why?"

"As I said to Leia, they were in my way."

"Uh-huh," Han said, head tilted. "In your way _how_?"

"I wasn't supposed to be out of the medicenter."

"She tell you their names? Cos I'm pretty sure someone must have. I said one of 'em myself just a minute ago."

"I assume you're going somewhere with this?"

"You could tell me the names of everyone you ever killed. Whether you were in the right or the wrong, you made a point of remembering."

"Maybe I've grown up."

Han's attention turned back to the jerry-rigged taizer. "And I'm supposed to think you built this?"

"You think I couldn't build that piece of crap?" He reached casually out with his cuffed hands as he spoke, to turn the taizer over. As he did so he sensed the flush of frustration flash out from Han—but it was too late; they both knew he'd just put his fingerprints on it.

"I don't doubt you could build it," Han growled. "The question is, why bother? Why go to the trouble to steal all those parts and build that basic piece of junk when you have a lightsaber that Leia gave you."

"It has no charge," Luke said evenly. "You can't just plug vintage ones like that into a standard power socket or put them on a recharge coil."

"You're tellin' me you couldn't have found a way to recharge it, if you'd wanted…among all that stuff down in the repair bay with the _Falcon_?"

"Apparently not."

"Fair enough," Han said with a disbelieving tilt of his head. "But then I guess why bother, when you've got a finely-honed grade-A weapon ready to loose off at any time with nothing more than a thought, huh?" As he spoke, he tapped knowingly at his forehead.

Luke raised an eyebrow. "The Force is a little…traceable, don't you think."

"So is leaving the bodies where they can be found, then taking the conveniently-traceable weapon back to your own quarters in the medibay and pushing it under your bed." Han lifted his eyebrows and his voice in equal shows of disbelief. "Under your _bed_!"

"I was interrupted, I wasn't thinking." It was embarrassing. She couldn't have hidden it better than that? Even if its discovery played into his desire for the weapon to have been found close to himself as supposed _proof_ , it was mortifying to have to claim he'd left it there.

"And then admitting you did it—that's pretty damn traceable, don't you think? Not the first time you were asked—I understand you were halfway between confused and defensive, then—but once you'd got it all figured out, you stepped right in there with a full confession. That's pretty much the final nail in the _traceable_ coffin, huh? And once they get that box nailed down all good and tight, they're not very likely to change their mind—or be lenient on you. But you know that too, and you never did particularly care, did you? So I guess the real question here is, who are you looking to save from the same fate, by taking all this on?"

"It's immaterial."

"Immaterial? You think the death sentence is immaterial?"

He grinned. "You really think I'll let them carry it out?"

"I'm serious! You can't just turn around now and say, 'I was kidding, I didn't do it. Big joke, guys'. That's not how it works."

"Please," Luke dismissed dryly. "You might want to try looking a little deeper under the surface of your shiny new Rebel friends. I was under a death sentence the moment they knew I was Sith. It was only a matter of time. This way is clean. This way anyone who might have been pulled into trying to protect me has a reason to back off."

Han lunged forward, and for a second Luke felt sure he was going to try to grab him—but even now, he held back. Physically, if not verbally. "You drive me insane sometimes, you know that?! You're so damn sure that everyone's just the same as Palpatine—just as spiteful and vindictive."

"Oh that's right, all your new Rebel friends go around smiling asinine, saccharine smiles, right? Nobody ever judges, you're all just one big, happy family. Maybe the sentence will be that they all hug me to death. Remember, you're looking at their faces…I'm looking at their thoughts. I can see what's inside them, I know what they think."

"And what _do_ they think, huh? They're afraid of you? They want you gone so that they can sleep easy tonight? Maybe they do. But you know what, they don't act on it, do they? Even when you were unconscious in the medicenter they curbed their own actions 'cos they wanted to do the right thing. Yes, they've heard the stories—Sith knows, I could vouch that at least half of 'em are true—but at least they're trying! They're letting their actions speak for them!"

"Oh that's why I'm in a cell with my hands cuffed," Luke growled.

"You're in a cell with your hands cuffed because you just said you killed two men!" Han yelled, slamming his palms flat on the table again.

"They accused me before I said anything," Luke hissed. "They _assumed_."

"So you're gonna just agree and let 'em kill you, to prove your point?!"

Luke locked his jaw as he looked down, and in a burst of frustration Han wheeled about and strode across the cell to yank at the wires which fed into the small security lens in the corner—then to the second, behind Luke's head. Then he grabbed at the back of Luke's chair to haul it about, eliciting a brief yelp.

Instantly Luke was up on his feet, arms lifting— Han held his ground, hands out before him, palms open and facing Luke to dispel any perceived threat as his voice dropped. He forced himself calm again, though he was patently still seething.

"Okay, no recording devices any more, no-one's observing, just you an' me. You want to tell me what really happened, 'cos I don't believe for one moment that you had a damn thing to do with the deaths of those two guys."

Luke sat again heavily, arms resting on his legs. It was a second before he realized that the organic steel cord which had joined his binders had been snapped—probably he'd done it unthinkingly when Han had wrenched him around. "Why not? I told you, they were in my way."

"How, exactly?" Han pushed. When Luke remained silent, he shook his head. "I've seen what you do when you kill. That wasn't you. For one thing, there was enough of the corpses left to recognize them. You're messier than that."

"I wasn't angry with them," Luke held with quiet constraint. "They were just in my way."

"You weren't angry with that guy on Sinto military base, but you still threw him at the wall so hard that you caved the back of his skull in."

"He surprised me," Luke grated.

"You didn't kill those guys. You had no reason to. But you know who did, don't you? And you want to protect them. That's what this is all about."

Luke kept his head down. He wanted to glare at Han, tell him to go to hell…but underneath all this anger on both sides was Han's genuine concern for someone who he _knew_ was allowing themselves to be framed—and how could he be angry at him for that?

Han sighed roughly. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

"Not really."

"Any particular reason?"

Luke glanced away. "It's complicated." There it was again; his life, summed up in a single word. He wanted to laugh out loud.

"Simplify it."

It was almost funny. Almost hysterical, Han's tone so clearly that of someone trying hard to hold it all together. But if he started laughing now, Luke had the unsettling feeling he'd never stop.

So he kept his head down. "I can't."

"Fine, I'll take the complicated version, then."

Luke finally looked up. "I would, but I'm leaving."

He saw Han brace just slightly, instantly on alert.

"Not right now," Luke dismissed, offended that Han would even think he'd… but then maybe not. He wasn't exactly demonstrating his best qualities, here. Either he was accusing everyone Han knew of being hypocrites, or he really had killed two men for no reason. Possibly both. He sighed, tiring of this.

"You knew I wouldn't stay—not here."

"I didn't know why," Han murmured, rubbing at his own temples tiredly, then looking sharply up. "I called it though— _I knew_ something was dragging you away, and I couldn't figure out for the life of me what the hell it was, now that Palpatine was dead…and you let me keep on thinking that, didn't you?"

Luke looked down, voice quieting. "You know better than to trust me."

"No!" Han said, anger resurfacing. "No, I'm not gonna let you get away with that kinda crap any more. This…abdicating of responsibility, you don't get to do that here. You're not a kid any more. You want to be taken seriously, you _take responsibility_ for your own actions!"

"Fine, how's this—I said the day I came here that it wasn't to pass on secrets."

"Secrets? This is your sister's life we're talking about!"

"I wouldn't let him hurt her," Luke said quietly.

Still Han wouldn't be mollified. "Why the hell didn't you tell us sooner?"

"Because that was the deal, alright?" Luke yelled the words, but the anger was brief and at himself, and his voice immediately quietened to an almost embarrassed uncertainty as he continued. "That was the deal I made with myself, in my own head. If I didn't tell you anything then I wasn't betraying him. If I wasn't betraying him, then I could do this. I could be here, and not feel every moment of every day like I was turning inside-out with guilt."

Han quietened a little. "You don't owe that—"

"You think that somehow something as immaterial as distance is gonna make it easier for me to ignore a whole lifetime of training and indoctrination—and yes; yes, I know that's what he did, I'm not blind. But he's here, every single second." Luke reached up, knuckles rapping against his own head. "He's _right here_! Sometimes I can even sense him looking for me. I swear, sometimes the things that I do, the thoughts in my head, they aren't even my own…" He slowed, shaking his head, running out of words and strength and impetus as he let out a long, unsteady breath. "It's better this way. Really. What did you think would eventually happen, if I stayed? Sooner or later the whole crew would have found out about the Sith in their midst, and then what? What happens when they find out that their own leaders were trying to hide him? What happens when Leia becomes involved, trying to protect him? What happens when Palpatine stabilizes his Empire enough to throw half the fleet at the Rebels, trying to get what's always belonged to him back? It was an untenable situation from the start. And I just…I can't be among normal people, Han. You know that. I can't be here."

"You didn't kill anyone," Han said quietly.

"I would have, eventually."

Han sighed, his frustration coming from concern now, in knowing Luke's opinion of himself, endlessly drummed into him by Palpatine. "You can make this work—we can. Even now. You just have to let all that stuff go and—"

"I tried, Han, I really did. I spent nine months running in ever smaller circles in the Rim, trying to outpace it. But it stays with me. It's the dark of the night and the shadows in the day. It's in my head when I sleep, it's in every cell of my body."

"And Leia—is it in hers?"

"Not this," he said quietly. "But she walks a different path."

Han crouched down to sit on his heels before Luke. "So can you."

Luke couldn't help but smile, feeling such benevolence for Han, that he could believe it even now—because he did.

He felt his whole face soften, felt his soul warm. Felt a hundred years old and infinitely wiser, in that moment. "I can't. Look around you, Han; I really can't."

.

.

It was time to go.

Time to leave this brief, surreal world of altruistic tolerance behind. He'd never really belonged here, anyway. Han had left when two guards had entered with an order to reconnect the security lenses, claiming he'd find the proof that would get Luke out of this cell with or without Luke's help. He needn't bother. Luke glanced about the small holding cell he'd been placed in, sensing alert minds beyond the dense walls; eight. Eight soldiers, to stop a Sith. It was almost an insult.

Time to go. To do so in such a way that it would put all blame unarguably on himself, as well as push Leia away for good. He felt a slight pang of guilt that the pilots—the Rogues—would think ill of him, but quashed it immediately. This wasn't his life—not really. His _real_ life had caught up with him once more, and unless he moved decisively right now, it would detonate like a planet-killer whose shock wave would fell everything and everyone around him.

Time to go.

.

.

.


	25. Chapter 25

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER 25**

.

.

Leia stood on a transmission pad in the main comms chamber, eyes on the lifesize holo of Mon Mothma being transmitted from _Home One_ , its shimmer the only light in the darkened space.

"I don't know what tell you," Leia admitted, shaking her head. "It makes no sense, on any level."

Mon hesitated for a second. "I understand that Luke admitted to the murders?"

A scowl of confused frustration wrinkled Leia's brow. "He has, but…why would he do it, Mon? He had no reason, no motive."

"He's put himself in a very precarious position, Leia." Again Mon hesitated. "I…question whether he may have done it on purpose."

"…On purpose?"

"Leia…if I were to ask you to step back from this…from him—"

"No. Absolutely n—"

An alarm claxon drowned out her refusal, as the comm-room door slid aside, admitting a wide shaft of bright light from the main bridge's entry corridor which dimmed Mon's hologram as Leia turned.

Captain Hollis leaned in, voice tight. "We have a breakout from the main detention—"

"Luke?" Leia prompted.

Hollis nodded. "He's been out for minutes already; someone's only just managed to raise the alarm."

Leia turned quickly to the hologram. "I'll get back to you."

.

"Report?" Hollis had already returned to the Bridge to crouch at the edge of the main crew pit, by the time Leia entered.

"Information's still coming in, sir. We have all eight guards in the detention level accounted for—all unconscious but alive. We don't have a time-scale, though."

"Who sounded the alarm?"

"A droid from the main security center. The cell feeds were set on a cycle; when cell nine came up, it was empty. He sounded the alarm immediately."

Leia drew level with Hollis. "The last time the feed was positive?"

"Seven minutes ago—that's the standard rotation time gap."

That was bad; you could get a long way onboard a Star Destroyer in seven minutes—especially if you knew your way around. Leia lifted her comlink from her belt, unthinkingly reaching out for Han's presence onboard as she spoke. "Han? Luke's out."

She listened to him loose a long run of curses…and eventually interrupted, since they didn't seem to be stopping any time soon. "Where are you?"

"Security hub library. I was just sifting through the security database from earlier on, to see if I could turn anything up."

"Stay there!" Leia said quickly. "He's had seven minutes—where would he go?"

"He'd…hold on."

.

Han was already rising, letting the chair behind him fall away unheeded as he set off for the main security hub three rooms away.

Han didn't bother to interrupt the five droids and one sentient officer on duty as he entered, and no-one turned, everyone staring at their consoles with fevered concentration, skipping between live corridor feeds and timed footage. They were already receiving orders and beginning a fast sweep through corridors and open spaces, looking for their fugitive.

They wouldn't find him, Han knew. Kid had grown up on Star Destroyers since the age of eleven; he knew every nook and cranny, every access hatch and repair tube.

But Han had the edge—because no matter how the kid got there, he knew _exactly_ where Luke would be heading.

Putting Leia on hold, he commed Wedge Antilles.

"Commander Antilles," Wedge's voice lilted as he spoke, as if he were running.

"Wedge, it's Han. Where are you?"

Wedge's voice came back slightly confused, but alert. "Me? I'm on level fourteen heading for the main hangar. We've been ordered to—"

"Turn around. Go to the 'tech repair bay and get to Luke's freighter."

"The _Falcon_?"

If the kid had hijacked a Star Destroyer and taken it all the way back to Rishi to pick up that beaten-up old freighter, Han knew damn well he'd take the time to go down to the docking bay for it now. "Get in, get her airborne and fly her out. I'll get your clearances and tube exits to an external bay, now. They'll be in place by the time you get to the _Falcon_."

"What the hell's going on? We've just had an All-Points alarm—is this something to do with Luke?!"

"Just do it, Wedge. I'll ask Hollis to clear the rest of the squadron to take out the TIEs. Those are the only ships that he might have pre-coded access to, so we need 'em out of the bays. They're not what he'll go for first, though. Comm me when you're space-side."

"Seriously? He'll just take another ship—he can fly a fighter."

"But he can't activate any." Han was already moving from the security suite in the bowels of the ship, heading up to the action—or at least where he figured it might start. "I'm heading down to engineering; we'll instigate a full lock-down on all ships. He can't counter it because he doesn't have the codes—they're Rebel codes."

"What the hell _does_ he have, to trigger an All-Points alarm? What's going on?"

"Just get the damn freighter off the hangar floor, now! It's the only unlocked starship he can guarantee the location of, and it's his. I know him, he'll go for the _Falcon_."

"Alright, I'm going, I'm going."

.

.

The good thing about an undermanned Star Destroyer was that, with a little creativity and lifelong familiarity, you could slip through repair corridors and obscure shortcuts without seeing another soul—especially if you could detect those active, wary minds long before they even saw you.

Luke was barely three levels from the repair hangar and so the _Falcon_ , mentally going through the correct series of internal access chutes which ran like arteries through the center of any Star Destroyer to route deep-storage ships to an outer bay and so open space, when the comlink at his belt chimed. So confident was he of reaching the _Falcon_ , that he actually activated it.

"Hey, sis." He knew it was her; she'd been trying to get him to reply to her by one means or another for a while now.

"Luke, stop."

"Sorry, I get the feeling I've overstayed my welcome."

"If you're heading to the repair bay let me save you the trouble; the _Falcon's_ already gone. She's outside the Destroyer. There are no flyable ships… You might be able to hotwire an escape pod into releasing, knowing you, but if you do, we'll just pick you up on tractor beam."

Luke pursed his lips as he slowed to a stop, fuming. Then he pressed the comm to transmit, barely holding his temper. "I really, _really_ think you should bring it back."

"You know I'm not going to do that."

"The _Falcon_ belongs to me."

"Come out, and we can talk."

Unseen, he shook his head briefly. "Fine. You want the _Falcon_ —keep her. I'll get my own ride."

"Everything's locked down, Luke. Everything. You don't have the codes."

"I have one, and it's all I need." He flicked the comm-line closed, and started moving again. He didn't want to turn this into a face-to-face fight with Leia or anyone else, but they were narrowing his options by the minute, and with every new challenge the lessons of survival that had been drilled into him over the years sharpened, taking precedence over lingering doubts.

If he couldn't get to his first choice to get out, they had only themselves to blame.

Heading away from the _Falcon's_ hangar he altered his course from long familiarity, heading at speed towards the base of the Destroyer's Command Tower: Plan B.

.

He reached the secondary bridge at the base of the Command Tower and skidded to halt, hands out flat to stop himself from slamming into the routinely sealed doors. Stepping to their side he took a half-second to gather himself; more speed, less haste. Still breathing heavily, he keyed in a Hand override code, uncertain whether it might have been discovered and nullified; he could force the doors if necessary, but it would be difficult to close them afterwards—particularly when he needed them to be airtight for this to work.

The dual sets of heavy security doors slid obligingly open to a dark and still room. Entering, Luke spun about and slapped the lock panel, then keyed the activation of the secondary outer blast doors which sealed any Destroyer's Bridge. They slammed shut with satisfying force, their massive central lock engaging with a powered thud and plunging the unused room into pitch black

Both doors could be disengaged from the main Bridge high above, of course…but he wasn't about to let that situation continue.

Set into the main body of the Star Destroyer's bulky body mass, the dark and idle room was a duplicate in every respect to the primary Bridge near the top of the Command Tower, designed to be fallen back on if the more vulnerable primary Bridge was damaged. Its only difference was that instead of the standard run of exterior viewports, it sported a series of presently blank viewscreens which when active presented multiple views from surface lenses about the ship's vast hull, to simulate the primary Bridge view. Other than that, it carried the same full access to all systems that the primary Bridge did, high above—and as such, it also responded to the same hard-wired override codes.

Luke crossed the room without slowing despite the gloom, and stepped off the walkway to land in the lower level of the inset pit crews which held the main consoles, all dark and deactivated. Reaching the Ops console he hit the trigger to bring it online, then keyed in the sixteen digit Command Protocol code which was hardwired into every Star Destroyer in the Imperial fleet. Immediately lights across the darkened room lit as the entire Bridge activated in sequenced banks, consoles and monitoring stations initiating links and flashing their status as they came online. Designed for an emergency situation, Luke knew from memory that the entire secondary bridge could move from dormant to full-link in around eight minutes.

If they didn't cut him out before that, the links would be active—and with a direct line to the mainframe and functioning Command Protocol codes, he had control.

.

.

On the Bridge, Leia stood close to Lyto at the Tactical console, whilst Captain Hollis crouched to the edge of the crew pit.

"Any sign of him?"

The burly Byssic narrowed his all-black eyes. "His comlink was abandoned in turbolift nineteen-E. That carriage was keyed to open on six consecutive levels, so he could have exited at any of those points. I'm sending the locations to the tactical teams now."

"Which two would have given the easiest route to a hangar bay," Leia asked, aware of Han's hunch. "It'll be one of those—probably the harder one to reach."

"Levels twenty-six and thirty," Lyto said. "I'm locking down all connecting turbolift clusters which serve those levels, now. I'll free them up when I have voice confirmation from a tactical team."

"Lock as many doors as you can, too," Leia added. "He has a lightsaber so it won't stop him, but it—" Sensing a brief flare of shock she turned about to look to Lieutenant Taff, at the Ops console.

Taff rose in confusion, looking to Hollis. "Sir, I have aberrant readings on…sir, the secondary Bridge at the base of the Command Tower is coming online!"

Hollis glanced to Leia. "Would he know how to control a Star Destroyer?"

"I don't know," Leia admitted. "Probably. Would the secondary Bridge override primary Bridge commands?"

"No Ma'am," Taff shook his head. "Primary Bridge commands always take precedence."

"Well then what's he doing?"

"Maybe he doesn't know that," Taff suggested.

It didn't matter, Leia knew. They had a position for him. She moved quickly from the command pit's lower level, using the Force to enhance her jump and bring her smoothly clear and onto the Bridge's main walkway. Lifting the comlink from her belt, she keyed for Han as she kept moving.

"Han? We have him, he's on the secondary Bridge."

"That's not good."

"They can override anything he does there from the primary Bridge," Leia assured, glancing briefly back whilst she headed for the door and the turbolift beyond. "Lyto—reactivate a ride for me!"

She was inside the turbolift in seconds, only now listening to Han's reply. "Say again?"

"I said, he has a set of overrides—he has full overrides for everything!"

"We've disabled all the Imperial overrides," Leia assured. Still, she was beginning to tense again.

"Not these," Han said quickly. "They're…I can't remember their name, they're a set of Hand-dedicated command codes that old Yellow Eyes had hardwired into everything during manufacture. Do you remember anyone ever talking about them—the Rebel techs who cleaned the system?"

"Hold on, I'm linking this comm to Captain Hollis, on the Bridge."

"Hollis," came the Captain's tense reply.

"Han?" Leia prompted, wasting no further time explaining.

Han too, kept it short. "Hollis, there's a hardwired override on all Star Destroyers—did your techs find it?"

"Lyto?" Hollis prompted to his tactical officer.

"I…have no specific data on that. We disabled about thirty hidden back doors in the main system that—"

"No," Han interrupted, slowing as he dredged up fragments of old memories. "No, it's…it's not part of the main system—that's the point. No-one knew it was there except Palpatine and his Hands. It's hardwired. It runs independent of all other systems _specifically_ so that it won't show up on any programming check, and you can't deactivate it unless you physically cut the system out. Command Protocols! That's what he called them—Command Protocols. If he gets to any core console that has a line into any military vessel's main logic system, he's in and has priority over—"

As he spoke, the turbolift car that Leia rode in blacked out and jolted to a stop. Furious, she reached out in the darkness to slam her fist against the closed doors. "Son of a—"

"Leia, you there? Our power just went down."

"Mine too." She was already pulling her saber from her belt and slicing the blade down between the locked doors as she spoke. With a little encouragement from the Force, they slid back. She was leaning out through the open space trying to get her bearings and some sense of distance to the nearest floor when emergency power flared a wan light inside the car and it stuttered to moving again, automatically rising to the nearest exit and rotating to the doors, which opened onto a low-lit corridor and two shocked-looking crewers. They jumped back as she stepped quickly out, their eyes on her lit lightsaber.

Deactivating it, she set off down the dim corridor at a jog.

.

"Leia?" It was Han, the telltale jolt in his voice indicating that he too must be running. "Where are you?"

"Level thirty-one. You?"

"Practically on the other side of the ship, aft of the lower hangars. It's gonna take me a while to get there."

"How hard will it be to cut my way into the secondary Bridge?"

"Pretty hard. It'll have separate pressure and shield-rated blast doors, and an internal override for the locking system. You'd have to basically cut or blow the doors apart."

"Go to engineering, see if you can cut him out of the Destroyer's systems from there, or at least override the doors to get me in. Hold on." She switched channels as her comlink pipped. Captain Hollis' voice resolute.

"We have the two nearest tactical units and a tech team on their way to the secondary Bridge. Will you need more?"

.

By the time she rounded the corner of the little-used corridor which led to the secondary Bridge the tactical teams were already there, the directional lights on their helmets casting bright flares as they watched the four-man tech team who had pulled multiple wall panels to either side of the massive blast doors in an attempt to splice a physical override into the system.

She could sense her brother inside, a mix of grim determination and regret—guilt even.

Reaching the doors, she pressed the wall comm which would link her to the Bridge beyond. "Luke? Luke, don't do this. Talk to me."

Nothing.

"Luke, what are you going to do, where are you going to go?"

Silence. If anything, the determination she could sense deepened. Releasing the connection, she looked down to the techs. "How long?"

The nearest looked up. "It's kinda more like, _is it even possible_. It's a Bridge door, they're built specifically to withstand this kind of forced attack."

"Get it open."

.

.

He let them waste time trying to set up a delicate multi-wired bypass splice into the other side of the Bridge doors whilst he watched the instrument consoles within the crew pit come online. A little longer; he needed a little longer.

Clamping his jaw, he stopped at his side of the massive blast-rated shield doors, and closed his eyes. The Force flooded in to his perceptions, dizzying him sufficiently that he lifted a hand to the cool metal to steady himself. He didn't like it, this feeling; didn't like giving it control. Didn't like the fact that his original intent to use it to rip free the wires that they'd so carefully spliced in, was instantly infused with the knowledge that he could do the same inside their heads, with arteries and nerves. _A more permanent solution_ , some part of his mind reflected logically.

With her sense in the Force so close—the dense mass of the shield-rated doors was nothing within his perceptions—he remembered his sister's words just days ago: _"You know, there was a faction within the Jedi Order who believed that the Force is neither good nor bad. It simply exists. It's how we use it—our intent and motives—which define it."_

Which meant what, exactly? That _he_ defined the Darkness, and not it him? That the thought was his, and couldn't be blamed elsewhere? That he controlled it…that he _was_ it?

He flinched away from that last, angry at himself, for dredging such thoughts up now, when his attention should be on the moment. At Leia, for her constant pushing…at himself once again, for allowing the situation to come to this.

Hand curling to a fist, he focused the Force to tight, pinpoint intent…and wrapped it around the spliced wires to pull them free in a fast jerk, hearing muffled yelps of shock through the blast door.

Open to the Force, he sensed his sister's burst of frustration. Sensed her step forward in a swirl of eddies, drawing the Force in about her with easy grace. In the complex, energy-written vision of the Force, he saw her rest her hands against the opposite side of the blast door, her stance almost a mirror-image of his, intending to rip them free by force.

His lips twitched, mind still sharp with anger as he sent his thoughts out into the void.

- _A tug of war? Raw power…really?-_

 _._

 _._

The sense of her brother's dark amusement came to Leia a second before his words, all wrapped about with resounding certainty. His confidence in himself was practically nil, but his faith in the Force—in his ability to channel it—was absolute.

Without pause Leia drew her lightsaber from her belt and toggled it on, pushing the blade through the dense steel of the outer blast door in a flare of power. So unyielding was the dense metal that it took long seconds to heat red, boiling away from the blade and dropping in molten clumps on the floor as the techs clambered back.

The downward pressure required to force the energy blade a fraction down towards the blast-rated door's massive central lock was enough to tense her arms, shoulders and torso—but the blade moved, the heat from the molten metal's backwash sizzling a few loose strands of hair as she leaned in, focused on her task.

How long? Three minutes, to cut entirely through both? Five?

She was still calculating when the grind of automated pressure doors further down the long corridor behind her leaked into her hearing over the hum of her saber, as multiple heavy doors along the corridor slid back to lock themselves into open position.

"Hey Hon," Han's voice came over the open comlink at Leia's belt. He was still in engineering, trying to disable whatever the hell override Luke had engaged to cut into the Destroyer's systems, with about as much success as Leia was having in reaching her brother.

It didn't sound like he had good news.

"Don't know what you're doing to hack him off, but I thought you might want to know that Luke's just locked all the main pressure doors throughout the ship open. We can't close 'em again. Even the emergency auto-cycle's been shut down. Wait….no, there are two doors closing now, near you."

He had control—he had control of the ship's systems! Leia pulled her lightsaber free in a flare of liquefied metal, to glance to the closed pressure doors at the far end of the corridor. A second later, she sensed her brother's words within her thoughts.

- _Sorry, sis. Time for me to go. Or rather, time for you to do the same-_

Beyond the turn of the corridor at the locked-open turbolift shaft doors, they heard the distant grind of other doors locking closed. Everyone paused, waiting…..

Something changed—a pop in her ears which for some reason made her whole body tense—

"Woa—hey!" It was Han, on the comlink. "Leia, get out of there—I'm serious! An outside maintenance hatch just opened one level down from you—he's opened the corridor below you to space!"

Leia braced—then frowned. He'd put on a good show in the detention cell, letting her see past that tightly locked-down exterior to the Sith that dwelled within…but she'd seen more than that—more than he'd meant her to. "We're okay."

"Listen to me, he has one internal pressure door locked shut both sides of the breach. If he opens those, you and the five levels above and below you are all open to vacuum. Get out of there!"

Coming into her thoughts just as Han finished, her brother was amicable and amused.

- _I guess you've worked out that you're one button-push from a serious lack of atmosphere out there. Just wanted to underline the importance of you getting your people—all of them—to escape shuttles in the next minute…_

Leia arched an eyebrow, tilting her head in concentration to reply.

 _-You're bluffing. You wouldn't kill me-_

A brief pause, in which Leia could sense his thoughts rushing in a flare of aggression which made her brace…but as suddenly as it had formed it was gone, washed clean by a moment of genuine amusement. She could almost see him smile and nod his head.

- _Oh, good call-_

"Leia?" Han's voice had risen a notch. "It's happening on level twenty-five… fifteen… nine… he's doing it all over the ship. He's trapping everyone in restricted pockets between closed pressure doors with open airlocks between 'em."

- _And there's my reply. Time to get your people moving-_

Leia held still a moment longer, lips pursed in frustration as he continued.

 _-I've unlocked escape pods throughout the ship. Get your crew off, now. In two minutes time I'll vent the entire ship, then this Destroyer is launching to lightspeed. And its next stop will be Kuat, Imperial territory-_

She frowned, eyes closed.

 _-You wouldn't do that with me onboard. You wouldn't hand me over to Palpatine before, and I don't believe you'll do it now-_

- _True—which is why you'll be on the first escape pod. I'll relock half of the others, and when I sense you're clear, I'll release them again._ _If you don't leave in the next minute, I'll start opening hatches at random across the ship. Believe me, I will do it. Without flinching._ _I'm waiting-_

She knew damn well that she had her own inbuilt immunity, even with a Sith…but everyone else onboard didn't. The darkly amused sense of him slid back into her mind, tinged with a deadly serious edge.

 _-Patience isn't my strong point-_

Fuming, she backed up a few steps, shouting aloud. "Out! We're bugging out!" Lifting her comlink to her mouth, she spoke to Han in engineering. "Han, sound the general alarm—all personnel to the nearest evac point. Tell them the escape pods will all be released and activated inside of a minute. Then get out yourself, by the nearest pod."

"The engines are accelerating,"

His worried reply came as she was already striding down the corridor, gesturing to the Rebels about her.

"Hurry it up, then. Move!"

.

.

Luke watched the evac pods stream from the Destroyer in coordinated waves. Victory left him oddly distant, as if he were operating on autopilot, doing what had to be done, putting lessons drilled into him for years into practice without any sense of connection to them:

Need to leave?  
 _Get out of the cell.  
Source a ship._

Accomplished that? Extrapolate:  
 _Limit your opponent's ability to pursue.  
Hinder their ability to respond.  
Reclaim any lost collateral._

Long-term or personal goals:  
 _Protect Mara whilst negating her ability to continue her mission.  
Limit Leia and Han's risk by distancing yourself from them._

He could check them all neatly off from his mental list; text-book.

So why did he feel empty?

He diligently purged the air from all the corridors, then sealed the doors back up in sequence, not bothering to repressurize them. When the nav-computer buzzed to pronounce the lightspeed calculation complete, Luke activated the sequence from the helm console and watched the stars drag to whorling blurs as the ship accelerated beyond retaliation.

He was still staring blankly at the console when he heard a brief hammering against the Bridge's outer blast doors, barely loud enough to carry past the inner ones in the thin atmosphere beyond the Bridge.

Halfway between amazed and annoyed, he glanced at it, then away, back to the consoles. It was immaterial if someone had decided to play hero and try to stay behind to stop him; blindly foolhardy, and clearly not even vaguely thought through. He didn't even need to bother dealing with them—the vacuum in the corridor would do it for him, when their pressure suit ran out of air.

Dismissing it he looked back to the console, calling up star-charts for this part of the Rim. He'd programmed the first short lightspeed jump with nothing more in mind than getting safely back into Imperial space. He now needed to calculate a course addendum to tack onto the first jump with minimum time outside of lightspeed, because being in Imperial space no longer equated to being safe. For that he needed to reach the nearest loyal port, which would be Kuat and its shipyards. If he could drop out on the edge of the shipyard's military no-fly zone then he could safely make contact, and a crew could be shipped out to bring the Star Destroyer into Kuat's military shipyards. Inputting lightspeed jumps like this was one thing, as it was an automated sequence taken out of sentient hands, but to actually try to fly a Star Destroyer on his own when it dropped back into realspace was patently—

That knock on the blast doors again, this time louder and a little more desperate.

For want of something better to do, Luke walked over to the ops console and keyed up the security view of the corridor outside the blast doors. Its lens had started to frost at the edges in the freezing vacuum, but there was still enough of an opportunity for Luke to see some idiot in a full vacuum suit stood alone in the corridor outside. Shaking his head, Luke turned and walked away; they'd run out of air eventually—or freeze to death first.

He glanced back to the helm console, mind focusing on star charts and distances and—

The comlink set into the door activated with a hiss of static, and Luke ignored it. A few seconds later it pipped, as whoever was in the vac-suit managed to patch their suit's comm system into it.

"Luke?" It was Han. "What the hell, let me in. It's freezing out here!"

.

Luke keyed the outer blast doors, and realizing, Han stepped closer to the inner ones. The outer set closed behind him, trapping him in the narrow space between both sets whilst Luke waited for the pressure to equalize, fuming the whole time, before he could finally release the inner ones.

Han stepped forward in a cloud of cold mist which rolled across the deckplates and tumbled into the empty crew pits as he pulled his helmet free. "Finally! It's cold enough to freeze your—"

"You _idiot_!" Luke yelled without preamble. "You know where I'm going, why the hell are you here?"

"Seriously? You know I just spent the last year looking for you, right? You think I'm just gonna let you waltz outta here—"

"Back to the Empire!"

"—and have to trail all over trying to find you again," Han continued without pause. "Cos let me tell you, you're not easy to track when you go to ground."

"Well let me give you a hint: look for the Emperor—I'll be right there!"

"Seriously—you're seriously even considering going back to that yellow-eyed son of a nek."

"Why, you want me to stay with your Rebellion like a nice, docile prisoner?"

"You're not a prisoner."

"Well then why was I in a detention cell?"

"Because you'd just claimed you'd killed two men!"

"I'm not even gonna get back into this argument," Luke snarled, turning away. "I'll leave it with the fact that your happy-huggy Rebels seemed pretty damn reluctant to let me leave."

"I _think_ that's because you're taking their Star Destroyer," Han said dryly.

"It's the _Emperor's_ Star Destroyer," Luke stated unequivocally. "And if you and your friends had left my freighter where it was, this wouldn't have been an issue. But no, you just had to take _my_ freighter out of there!"

"Well don't you know how to throw a tantrum." Han glanced down into the empty crew pit. "You can't fly this thing on your own, you know that, right?"

"Of course I can't fly it on my own. I can program a jump and exit from lightspeed at the nearest Imperial military base, though." He turned as he spoke, stepping off the drop into the command pit without a pause, catching his weight lightly as he landed between the consoles. "Now I'm gonna have to program a drop out of lightspeed close enough to a planet between course-changes so we can do a stop-off, and I'm gonna have to work out how to reinstate the atmosphere in some of the vented corridors and try to track down a damn shuttle somewhere after I just let them all launch, to get you off of the ship before I go on to the Imperial base. I can't drop back out in the Rim systems, it'd take too long in real-space. If your Rebels actually have another capital ship nearby I can't defend this thing under fire on my own…" His voice trailed off as he stared at the Ops console, thoughts on how to achieve all this.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, you think I'm leaving? Did I not explain the 'hard to track you' thing clearly enough?"

Luke's attention remained on the console, though his voice raised slightly as he shook his head. "Did I not explain 'going back to the Emperor' clearly enough?"

"Okay, could we possibly just pretend we've had this whole argument for the last nine hours, and come to our usual truce where you stop griping and just accept that I'm not going anywhere. Where you go I go, you know that. That's how it is."

Luke looked up, voice quieting. "Except it's not. Not any more."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Congratulations. As ever, you're exactly where I don't want you to be, doing exactly what I didn't want you to do."

Still in his full vac-suit, Han leaned atilt against the wall, arms and ankles crossed. "Well hell, don't that just make two of us."

"You were supposed to stay with Leia!" Luke yelled the words, frustration breaking through.

"Leia can look after herself, believe me."

"So can I."

"Yeah, I was talkin' about bigger _deal-with-demons_ terms, not _I can kill a man in three seconds by just thinking about it_."

Luke stared for a moment, as the look on Han's face revealed his realization that he probably should have self-edited that before he said it aloud.

"Well thanks for that vote of confidence," Luke growled, offended. "You should still be with Leia, not me."

"Why should I b—"

"Because that makes it all okay, alright?! It makes it…" Luke sighed, lowering his voice. "If I know you're with Leia then I know you'll both be alright, no matter what. I know you'll look after her. I know she'll look after you. And that…makes all the rest bearable. You've got each other. Somewhere, _something_ is going right. I don't want you here, Han. I want you there, with her."

Han glanced down, voice quieting. "I didn't know."

"Well now you do. So go."

"You know we…we're not…"

Luke looked away, dry disposition reasserting in an effort to enforce his usual safe distance. "Oh please don't tell me details."

"No, I mean we're not…together. Well, we are, but…I dunno."

"Seriously—you _seriously_ want to talk about your love life with one of the most screwed-up people you've ever met? Those are your words, by the way. I remember them distinctly."

"No," Han said cagily. "It's just, you know…the age difference."

"Really? You're gonna make me do this? Now?"

"Hey, I told you what to do about your redhead."

"And then I ignored you and did the exact opposite. Screwing it up further in the process, if that was even possible. Yet you're _still_ asking my advice now."

"That's how desperate I am."

Luke sighed. "Fine. Here's my advice: Forget about the age thing. What the hell does it matter, anyway? Seriously…age is the only problem you have? If you've found _anyone_ who'll put up with you on a long-term basis you should grab that deal with both hands, believe me." He paused, still looking to avoid being pulled into any greater involvement. "Plus, if it helps, you're particularly immature—that's why you get on with me."

"Thanks," Han deadpanned. "So…y'know, as her brother, you don't mind?"

"If I did, it wouldn't be on those grounds."

Han pondered… "I guess maybe I have been makin' a big thing out of…wait a minute, what the hell grounds _would_ it be on?"

"None," Luke said, exasperated. "No grounds."

"You just said—"

"It was a figure of speech! There are no grounds, okay? I've just yelled at you for five minutes straight because you should be with her, not me."

"Sure you're not plannin' on blowing my head up any time soon?"

"What, like now? I'm getting that way."

"Thanks."

"But I'll refrain. Mostly because my sister would object."

"What about if she and I have an argument some time, and she contacts you all upset and mad at me?"

"First, I don't think she'll be contacting me any time soon, do you? Second, I _really_ don't think she needs me to fight her corner. Believe me, I've dueled her when she's angry. You're on your own with that one."

Han nodded slowly, uncertain whether to be mollified or not. "Well…okay then."

Luke glanced back to the streaming numbers on the navigation console. "Now that's sorted, we need to get you off the _Relentless_."

"What? No, I'm still coming with you." Han lifted his arms, hands spread. "Seriously, you thought that would make me leave?"

"That's why I had the conversation," Luke grated slowly.

"No, no, no. Me an' Leia've got the rest of our lives. Right now, I need to get her brother sorted out. Otherwise I really _will_ be in trouble."

.

.

.

.

.

"You know I've been thinkin'," Han started casually—

"Please don't do that," Luke said immediately without looking up from where he hunched to the far side of the desk, stylus in hand, scratching some sketch across a piece of flimsy. "It never ends well."

They sat in the only other room that was still available to them from the secondary Bridge—that of the Captain's ready-room. They'd slept in here as well, last night. No pillows, no blankets, nothing. At least five times during the night Han had toyed with putting his vac-suit back on and going in search of more oxygen, and then the nearest bunk-room. Hell, he'd've happily slept in the vac-suit if it had meant that he could've done so on a bed—it couldn't have possibly been any less comfortable than the two upright chairs he'd had to pull together in the Captain's ready-room. And he'd only had two because the kid had eventually gotten tired of his fidgeting and heavy sighs, and given up his own chair to sleep on the floor.

There'd been the usual dry discussion:

" _Here, take the second chair."  
"It's fine, I don't need it."  
"Take the damn chair before I break it over your head so I can finally shut you up and get some sleep."  
"Man, you are snippy past midnight…"_

Now, awake, tired, bored, wired, still six hours from Kuat and sat listening to his own stomach growl, Han shook his head. He was trying to keep the kid's mind occupied…or his own; difficult to say. "No, listen, my point is, you an' Leia, you're different ages, right? But Kenobi, he told Leia you were twins. Not just brother and sister; twins. An' he oughta' know, he was there when you were born."

Luke glanced up. He'd rifled through the drawers of the unused Captain's desk hours earlier and come up with a few sheets of flimsy and a stylus, which Han knew from long experience would keep him quiet for days. "How do you know Kenobi was there?"

"He told Leia he was."

The kid glanced down again at the sheet of flimsy, voice dripping sarcasm. "Oh, well, it must be true then."

"Why would he lie?"

"Really? You want to get me started on that one?"

"Okay, why would he lie _about that_?"

"Is this going somewhere?"

"Yeah." Han glanced down to the flimsy, where Luke's hand had moved to a new spot.

As ever, it told what was on his mind exactly: a small sketch of Leia appeared in the space of moments, head tilted forward slightly, huge, dark eyes narrowed, that single straight-up line that she got between her brows whenever she was really angry rendered in quick, well-observed detail.

Han let the fact that this was probably what the kid thought Leia now looked like whenever she thought of Luke pass, in favor of his original more positive topic. "What I'm sayin' is, why are you an' Leia different ages, if you're twins?"

"One of us presumably has it wrong," Luke said without interest.

"Precisely!" Han straightened at his side of the desk, forcing Luke to raise the stylus nib from his sketch for a moment as it shook, entirely ignoring Han's lifted index finger. "And based on the fact that everything _you_ got told, you were told by Palpatine, I'm gonna go with Leia's age as being right."

"I'm happy for her." Luke resumed his sketching.

Turned out that some forward-thinking Rebel tech had already initiated a full-range wipe-and-shatter of the _Pride's_ memory banks during the evacuation, saving Han the trouble and coincidentally providing perfectly-aligning time-codes with their withdrawal, leaving he and Luke with nothing to do but stare at the intensely bright vortex of lightspeed outside, and count the hours from their last meal.

That was of course, after Han had exhausted his attempts at trying to get the kid to just stop the ship so that they could both bunk-off, abandon it, and lie low for a while. Sort things out that way—or at least wait for the dust to settle on this latest calamity, to assess the damage.

But every time he tried, Luke's frayed tolerance grew a little thinner, and the kid clammed up a little faster and tighter. Seemed like they were actually gonna do this…so all he could do was what he'd always done with the kid; just…see it through. And hope to all hells that Luke came to his senses at some point.

That they were going back at all was…catastrophic. Dangerous in the extreme. Insane…yeah, he'd go with insane. Insane worked.

But somehow, somewhere along the way, this messed up, wayward, harebrained, willful, self-sabotaging kid who reminded him so much of himself ten years ago, had become a brother to Han. A messed up, wayward, harebrained one, yeah, but…brave. Fearless, in fact. Gutsy and strong-willed and sometimes, surprisingly, secretively caring. He just…hid it well.

And given where they were headed, and a wealth of past form, Han was willing to bet big credits that pretty soon this kid who was like a little brother to him would really, _really_ need someone on his side. And there wouldn't be anyone else near, Palpatine would make damn sure of that.

It was pretty much as simple as that—always had been, for Han.

"Is that it?" Luke asked without looking up. "Leia's exactly the age she thought she was?"

"Ah but listen, she's not the age _I_ thought she was. 'Cos I keep on thinkin' she's as old as you."

The stylus paused. "You just finished telling me that she _is_ the same age as me."

"No listen—what I'm sayin' is, you're the same age as her. You're eleven months older than you think."

"Great."

"That makes you eighteen."

"Fine."

"That makes Leia—who I think of as the same age as you—eighteen."

"Great," the kid said flatly. "I'm still happy for her."

"You can be an absolute kuff sometimes, you know that? Drier than a womp-rat's asshole."

"I have no idea what that means," Luke said, eyes on his sketching. "But I'm guessing any description that ends in asshole can't be good."

"Y'know, I'm not even gonna get into this with you."

"How can you not get into something that you started?"

Han glared, aware that the kid was purposely trying to bait him out of boredom, now. "You just do this for sport, don't you?"

"Practice."

"You don't need practice, you're a natural."

"See, now you're just getting into it with me," Luke repeated back to Han without animosity, still sketching.

Determined to hang on in there, Han stuck with his original point. "What I'm _sayin'_ is, that makes Leia eighteen, not seventeen. I keep on thinkin' that she's the same age as you, and she's not— _you're_ the same age as her…see?"

The stylus stilled as Luke glanced up without moving his head. "Is this conversation going where I think it's going? Because if it is, you _really_ shouldn't be having it with her brother."

Han twitched straight. "No, what the hell! I'm just saying, there's a difference. To me, there is. I'm sayin' I'm…workin' out plans to spend my life with the _woman_ I..think I…wanna..spend my life with. Kinda thing."

Interesting…turned out he _did_ have something on his mind beside boredom.

Luke was still staring, and Han scowled, lips pursing lopsidedly. "Oh don't look at me like that, it's not like you got these kinda' turns of phrase down perfect. At least I can admit it out loud."

Kid held his eyes for long seconds…then went back to his sketching. "Actually I already did. I'd like to think I got the phrasing a little better than that, but I'm not entirely sure. But at least I actually said it to the person in question." He'd moved to a clean spot on the flimsyplast and barely started to draw the outline of a woman's face when his hand slowed to a stop, pressing against the flimsy so hard that it punctured a hole. "It was _after_ I'd said it, that I screwed everything up."

For a few more seconds he remained still, lost in thought…then, as if realizing Han's close scrutiny he shrugged, scribbling the sketch out entirely. "You know me, I screw everything up, given long enough. Didn't even need very long, that time."

"Okay, wait, you had an actual relationship—with an actual, live woman?" Han shook his head rapidly, holding up his hands palms out as offence crept into the glare Luke was giving him. "I mean, yeah, that's great! Really. Where—on Rishi?"

"No. After Rishi."

Han frowned. "After Rishi you got picked up by the Empi…oh."

Kid held that perfectly level stare, making Han realize just how much he'd put into that last inarticulate word.

Han shook his head rapidly. "No, I mean, uh…that's not..entirely…" The word _catastrophic_ came back to mind. Amazing how often it did, with Luke.

"Hey, you were a military Aide working in the Imperial palace when you met Leia."

"Totally different," Han held. "Not nearly as…" He couldn't think of a level past catastrophic, but let's not go inviting trouble—and considering the kid's track record, that sounded like all kinds'a flat-out trouble.

"Well you can breathe easy," Luke grumbled. "Like I said, I screwed it up." He glanced up. "But she got her own back. I guess at least we're even, now."

"Y'know, I'm not entirely sure it works like that."

"Right, so I should follow your lead." It couldn't have been said more irreverently. " 'Cos you're doing _great_."

Han stared…..and for a few seconds, the kid held his glare with a sabacc-face—then looked back to his sketching just as a smile twitched to his lips. "Okay, _that_ time I was being a womp-rat's asshole."

.

.

.

.

.

The _Relentless_ dropped from lightspeed with calculated precision, coming to an automated all-engines stop at the edge of the Kuat system. Luke glanced once to Han, suddenly nervous, well aware that given the slightest opening Han would try one more time to talk Luke back from his decision—even now. But his bridges had been burned and his options narrowed to this. Wherever he went, the darkness

Shadows and tangles—that's what he'd called the Darkness as a child, when he'd first been pulled into his Master's orbit—and wherever he'd gone since, it seemed he took it with him. Better then, to bring it here. Bring it home.

With a brief, somber nod, he activated the emergency beacons and opened the comm on a military channel. "Kuat Shipyards, this is the ISD _Relentless_. We are dead in space and requesting assistance."

"….. ISD _Relentless_ , this is Kuat Flight Command. You are presently listed as hostile, and are ordered to power down and prepare to be boarded."

"Flight-Com, this is the _Relentless_ , I say again, we are already DiS. We're running on limited power with no crew. I repeat, we are Dead in Space, running on limited power with no crew. All weapons and generators are powered down, and we require assistance."

" _Relentless_ , you are under active guns and ordered to maintain your current position and status. You are presently in a military zone without permissions. An armed compliment will be at your location shortly. Open all docking bay doors and seals, and order any onboard crew to stand down. Any resistance will be met with deadly force."

"Flight-Com, I repeat, we are unmanned. All docking bays are open and shields are down. I need to speak to the Deck Chief."

"The Deck Chief is unavailable at this ti—"

"You and I both know that an unidentified Star Destroyer in his flight space will sure as hell have brought your Deck Chief out of his office. In fact he's probably stood beside you right now. Tell him if he does one thing right today, it will be this; he will run a code through his executive system; code nine-nine-six-two-gotal-epsilon."

There was a hiss of static as Luke stared at the comm console, uncertain what the response would be—whether he had already been disavowed, and his ciphers rescinded.

"… Sir, I've been asked to make a voice-code check. Please repeat the code, along with your name and rank."

"Identification code nine-nine-six-two-gotal-epsilon," Luke repeated, eyes still on Han. "This is Lieutenant General Luke Antilles."

He could only imagine what was coming up on the Flight-Com's console screen right now—only hope that his codes and ID hadn't identified him as a kill-on-sight target.

There was a crackle and _tack_ of commlines being redirected, then a new voice came onto the line, hurried and apprehensive.

"General Antilles, Sir. Welcome to Kuat military shipyards." The change was instant, from aggressive authority to efficient deference. "This is Lieutenant Howell, the Deck Chief. We'll get a team out to you right away, with tugs to bring you into tractor-beam range. Do you require any other assistance?"

"You can stand down the military boarding party," Luke said levelly. He hesitated; "And get me a secure line to the _Executor_."

.

.

.

Palpatine dismissed the officer with a nod of his head, feeling a slow smile pull his lips wide.

Perfect! Perfectly played out, it seemed. Mara Jade—his flawless little emerald and amber jewel—had played her part to perfection. In fact not only had his advocate returned, he had done so in a re-appropriated Star Destroyer. The only unanticipated facet—and knowing the boy, there would have to be one—was that his advocate had not returned alone. There had been a second man onboard—a fascinating addendum, in so many ways. A man whom Intel had already ID'd as the supposedly Killed in Action Imperial aide and combat pilot, Han Solo.

So the renunciation had not been completely as clean as Palpatine had intended. He had hoped that ordering Jade to frame his errant Sith for the murder of Rebels would induce a clean, irretrievable break. With the fast judgment of those around him made crystal clear, antipathy and outrage blaring out of the boy's newfound _comrades_ and battering against his mental shields, Antilles would naturally return to the familiarity of the only life he'd ever known. The only life which had always offered him a clear, comprehensible path.

Palpatine smiled, appreciative of the gift of _machination_ which enabled him to turn every problem into an opportunity. The boy's innate weakness remained, always, his need to connect on the petty, meaningless level of lesser beings everywhere. Jade's report that Antilles had not immediately turned her over to his new comrades had typified the youth's actions to date; irresolute. Still, the fact that he had still sought to protect her even among his new allies had provided Palpatine an opportunity to use that to his own advantage, in order to pry his advocate free and open his eyes to the very conditional aid of his supposed comrades.

And in doing so, drive the youth back to his true calling.

Solo…was a problem. Palpatine smiled; but then, given time, he generally found a way to turn such things to his own advantage.

.

.

.

.

.


	26. Chapter 26

.

.

 **CHAPTER 26**

.

.

.

Luke had half-expected them both to be thrown in the brig. Instead they were shown to the standard quarters, Han's just a short distance from Luke's, as any military aide would be—as if nothing was amiss.

It was past midnight ship's time, but the officer who accompanied them politely enquired whether they needed food sent to their quarters. He hadn't comment on either's clothes, but simply added that fresh uniforms would be delivered as soon as possible…and was there anything else he could help them with, before they retired for the night?

It was Han who had stepped forward and asked the question, all business: General Antilles had personal effects onboard the Destroyer they'd brought in, and Han would need access back onboard first thing tomorrow, to retrieve them. Not his own belongings—that was what had made Luke blink, though he hadn't been as obvious as turning.

It wasn't as if Luke had anything with him that—

His chin had twitched, though his face remained emotionless as the officer offered to have a droid or a tech retrieve the items. Han tilted his head and put his best sabacc smile on, voice shaded with over-officious conceit and just a hint of injured pride; No, thanks. He was the General's personal aide; it was _his_ job.

The unknown officer narrowed his eyes a fraction, clearly having seen way too many self-important military climbers in his time, but nodded nonetheless.

And look at them—minutes back, already neck-deep in trouble, and still apparently digging that hole…

.

Alone in the assigned quarters, Luke considered walking calmly back out of the door, to see whether the two guards _coincidentally_ on watch a short distance down the corridor outside would try to stop him. He could already sense Han's cautious bewilderment from across the hallway, and knew that Han was wondering the same.

Stood close to the door as he weighed his options, Luke caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the standard mirror which was mounted there, in every officer's quarters. With his hair cut short enough that its natural color was once again predominant, and his eyes somehow strangely unfamiliar now in pale, soft blue, he looked seventeen. Mara was right; without the harsh colors and wild hair to hide behind he looked less assured, less edgy.

He looked like the kid who had lived in Palpatine's shadow.

He stared for a long time. Eventually, still staring, he stepped back a few paces to sit on the edge of the bed…

He was woken by the chime of the outer door, and realized that at some point exhaustion must have taken over and he'd dropped onto his side, one foot still on the floor as if ready to run, and slept. He rose slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment as reality sank in about him again. It lay heavier on his shoulders than he'd expected, the realization of where he was. The dull acceptance of it.

Rising he padded to the door, where a pewter-finish protocol droid stood to unnatural attention, alone in the corridor—the guards were gone. "General Antilles? I have your uniform, sir. It was delivered a few moments ago, when the SSD _Executor_ docked."

As Luke took it, he realized that the droid had actually given him one of his own all-black Ubiqtorate uniforms, which must have been sent over from his old quarters onboard the _Executor_ …

Which could mean only one thing; he was expected to step into this uniform and into his old life, and go and find his Master…right now.

.

It was funny, the first place he chose to go, when dressed. Even knowing that Palpatine would be waiting—and the arrival of his uniform had been a none-too-subtle indicator of that—the place that Luke automatically made a beeline for was Han's quarters, down the battleship-gray hallway. It just seemed…natural. As if no time at all had elapsed since the last time that they were together onboard some other Star Destroyer, before Corsin and Palpatine's death and the Empire's fracture. As if nothing had changed between that moment and this.

Here he was, in the wrong yet again, and knowing that he would need to face Palpatine. So he'd fallen instantly back to the old habit of first seeking out reassurance from the one person whom he knew he could always trust to at the very least be willing to stand in the great big hole that he'd dug this time, alongside him.

He paused a moment, concentrating on his immediate surroundings, then pressed the door release to watch Han scrabbling a small tech crate under his bed, then pause, seeing who it was.

" _Kuso_ , would you just learn to knock, once in a while?! I nearly had a heart attack."

Luke let his head drop a fraction to the side. "You know they have surveillance on this room, right? Not right now, I just deactivated it—crushed the system boards—but all the rest of the time you've been in here."

"Hey, I picked it up, stuffed it into some other things from your room in the medibay, and brought it all here in a crate I carried the whole time. Haven't taken it out once, and nobody saw it."

"You shouldn't have gone to get it."

"They would've found it anyway, soon enough."

"But now you've made it relevant. Now you've made it mean something."

Han paused, his face so clearly communicating the unspoken words… _Doesn't it?_

Luke glanced away. "You should take it back to Leia."

"Give it to her yourself, next time you see her."

Luke shook his head, though he couldn't help but let the smallest smile come to his lips at his friend's insistence. That was all the encouragement Han needed, to pull the small crate out again and rifle through it.

"Here."

He rose, holding out the lightsaber—Luke's father's lightsaber. Luke remained still, eyes not wavering from it, though he didn't reach out his hand.

"You know I could have gone back at any time and got the lightsaber myself, and nobody would ever have been any the wiser, don't you?"

"You could have, but I know you. You're stubborn enough that you wouldn't, just to prove some kinda point…" Han paused. "Wait a minute—is that what you were gonna do?"

Luke didn't look to him. "Maybe, I dunno…and I guess we never will now, will we?"

Han hesitated for a second, searching Luke's eyes, then shook his head quickly. "Just take the damn lightsaber, before I'm tempted to use it on you."

Luke hesitated, mood darkening. "I can't take it now. I'm going over to the _Executor_ , to speak to Palpatine."

"Now? He's here?"

"The _Executor's_ docked, yes."

"What're you gonna say?"

Luke shook his head slowly, eyes still on his father's lightsaber.

Han sighed, turning the hilt over in his hands for a moment, then lifted his head. "So why d'you come in here first?"

"I figured I'd make one last attempt to get you to leave."

"Really? You really want your first act back here to be smuggling someone out?"

"You act like I could possibly make it any worse, at this point."

"…We could both leave."

Luke reached up to rub at the tense skin about his eyes with the heels of his hands, then across his shorn hair. "You're right, that _could_ actually make it worse."

"No, I meant—"

"I know." He stepped forward slightly, coming to a decision. "Give me that, I'll put it in my quarters. If they find it, they find it. We'll likely be onboard the _Executor_ before nightfall one way or another, anyway."

"One way or another being in our old quarters or in the brig, right?"

Luke tilted his head in acknowledgment. "Like I said, I don't think the saber could make this any worse, right now."

Han relinquished the saber. "You're gonna have to work out something to say to him, you know that."

Luke shrugged. "Pre-arranged speeches tend not to go down that well. He likes to think he has you on the back foot. If I go in pre-prepared, then he'll dig deeper and try harder, to get the edge. I'd rather he think he has the high ground early on, and not look any more deeply."

Han remained silent; there was little point in arguing anything now.

"See you onboard," Luke said, turning. He paused at the door. "Oh, if more than two stormtroopers come to escort you over to the _Executor_ , I'd go as far as the shuttle with them, then shoot them and take off."

"What am I supposed to shoot 'em with?"

Luke loosed a laconic grin. "I'm assuming they'll both have E-elevens. That's three people and two blasters in an enclosed space. You've done better than that with worse odds."

"Thanks," Han said dryly.

Luke shrugged. "Could'a left any time, Han."

"No," Han said with quiet certainty. "I couldn't."

Luke nodded once, and left without another word.

.

.

.

.

.

Stepping off onto the pristine, subtly gleaming deck of the SSD _Executor_ , Luke felt…what? He didn't even know.

He knew the path between here and the Emperor's apartments—knew that with his eyes closed. He knew the number of guards that would be on duty. He knew the names of the officers who would be on watch right now. He knew the battery compliments, the shield tiling, the lateral boundary limits, the flank blind-spots, power displacement, enfilade fire zone, repeat rate, armaments, fighter compliments…

He knew all that…but he didn't know his own mind. Didn't know why he was here, other than that it was the only place he knew where to be. _How_ to be.

An officer crossed the t-junction to far end of the long battleship-grey corridor and made a double-take at Luke, who had slowed to stand stock still in its center with his hands wrapped about the back of his neck, fingers interlaced… Then the man's expression—his whole demeanor—changed.

He straightened and nodded as he passed, a slight smile on his face. "General."

Dropping his arms Luke inclined his head in wary acknowledgment and set forward, eyes down, uncertain at the man's behavior.

He turned the corner, and had barely made ten paces before another officer turned onto the corridor, glancing up from his datapad—and made that same brief double-glance of recognition, straightening and giving a short nod.

"General."

This time Luke slowed to stare at his back, uncertain what was going on.

"General Antilles."

He turned about as a non-comm passed him in the hallway, making a brief but fuller salute. How the hell did the man know his name? Or his rank? Luke wore a Ubiqtorate uniform—they didn't display standard rank plates on their chest. And what was going on here, that people were treating him like this? This wasn't simply acknowledgment of an officer, it was actual recognition; respect.

He wasn't used to it—or was it just that he wasn't used to it _any more_? That nine months as a nobody, kicking round in the gutters of endless rim worlds, had led him to expect a very different…no. No, he'd never been acknowledged like this before. He'd been onboard the _Executor_ with Palpatine for months before he'd left, and outside of direct Command Staff, had never been recognized. This was something else entirely.

"General Antilles."

As he passed the next t-junction a junior officer not much older than Luke nodded in polite acknowledgment.

"Wait, stop." Luke took two fast steps to catch up with the man. "You…how do you know me?"

The youth smiled. "It's all over the ship, sir. The man who brought the _Relentless_ back single-handed." He transferred his datapad to one hand, to hold the other out. "I have to say, you did an incredible job, sir. You're the talk of the ship—I'm honored to have met you."

So dazed was Luke that he actually let the man take his hand, before trying to pull away. Undaunted, the officer seemed less than willing to let go. Instead he leaned in, grinning.

"I heard it was your ship at one time, sir—that was the reason you singled the _Relentless_ out. May I ask how you did it, sir? I know you brought it back on pre-programmed EMG systems, but how did you manage to get it free of the Rebels to activate them?"

"Uh," Bemused and barely back in his old life, it still didn't even occur to Luke to tell the truth; Command Protocols were something that weren't admitted to, even within the military. "It was undermanned. I…patched into the main Bridge from secondary, then sealed myself in and vented the rest of the ship to space, to empty it of personnel. It was already undermanned."

He stopped, aware that he was repeating himself. The man nodded, still smiling widely.

"Incredible. I heard you'd been infiltrating the Rebels for months?"

"I…can't say any more."

The man nodded conspiratorially. "Well, I already have a story to tell at dinner, if I may. It's an honor to have met you."

Luke managed to extricate his hand and backed up a step, clenching it to a fist as he turned mechanically about to continue on his way whilst the officer remained still, staring at his back as he walked off.

How had that got out? It wasn't the kind of thing that just leaked. People didn't _find out_ about Hand operations. No-one ever identified Hand operatives; they were invisible. All actions—all—were suppressed, they were censored…they _didn't get out_. They sure as hell didn't end up spreading round a Star Destroyer in a single morning, like celebrity scuttlebutt. It would take…ah.

A slow smile took the corners of Luke's lips, but went no further, tempered by dry realization; Palpatine. How to make your obviously less-than-one hundred percent committed advocate feel he's made the right decision in returning to fold. How to make him feel like the hero, the crusader. Make him feel instantly accepted amongst his own; appreciated…at home.

Funny…he'd almost missed this kind of mind-play. Almost.

.

.

.

.

.

It was a shock, to walk into the grand office and see the man who leaned over the wide, mirror-polished desk without looking up. Even knowing all that had happened, some part of Luke had still expected to see his old Master as he had always been—a withered and wasted body brought low by age and the demands of the Dark side, on whose cadaverous face flesh hung in dry folds, skin either pale and ashen, or so dark as to seem almost bruised. Back then, his Master had always covered his face with heavy hoods and mantles, remaining in shadows even in the light of day.

But the man who leaned in, forehead resting against his hand in a play of studying his datapad too intently to acknowledge Luke's entrance, was in his prime. His broad shoulders were emphasized by a perfectly tailored jacket of rich, dark fabric, strong hands set off by heavy rings, just-graying hair pulled tightly back to a long tail at the nape of his neck.

Luke wondered briefly whether Palpatine still wore a hood and cloak to disguise his youth from the majority of his own military, or whether even that had now been shucked, to show his renewed form. It occurred to him that he'd heard nothing of what had been happening within Palpatine's coalition since he'd been shut up with the Rebels—though the man before him was still patently in complete control.

Then again no matter what else happened, Luke had never for a moment doubted that.

His Master spoke without looking up, gravelly, disdainful tones instantly familiar. "I see you've returned my Star Destroyer to me."

Still stood to automatic attention, Luke's hands tightened where they were clasped behind his back, as they had been since he'd been admitted to Palpatine's presence without a wait, bracing for the inevitable clash. Mind-games and necessity aside, Palpatine wouldn't let his advocate's betrayal pass without chastisement, though past experience meant that since he hadn't already exploded at the sight of Luke, this might be an altogether slower and more dangerous game.

He kept his voice steady. "As I recall, you seemed to hold me responsible for its loss."

"You believe you were not?" Still his Master didn't look up.

Luke hesitated barely a second…but precisely long enough. "Regardless, it's returned to you, now."

"Ah. Then perhaps you can regain the other sixteen also lost in your absence, since my military seem incapable."

"It was a while before they moved me to a stolen Imperial Destroyer," Luke observed levelly, replying without in any way addressing the greater issue; if Palpatine wasn't minded to push on that right now, then Luke was more than willing to follow his lead. "Once they took me onboard the _Relentless_ it enabled me to utilize Command codes to retrieve it, when the situation became necessary. However I don't think they'd trust me again…do you?"

Palpatine lifted his head to stare at Luke for a long time before he replied quietly, "And therein is the crux of the issue. Because every time that one resorts to extreme actions, they will find they are forever perceived of as a fraction less…reliable."

Luke glanced quickly down, aware that Palpatine wasn't speaking of the Rebels or the _Relentless_. "I came back, didn't I."

Palpatine pulled another datapad across his desk in apparent concentration, eyes turning to its brightening screen. "When I forced your hand."

"If my hand was forced at any time, then it was when I first left the _Executor_." Had he said that, so brazenly? He felt his heart pound as he braced for a reaction.

Those broad shoulders dropped back a fraction as Palpatine straightened, chin lifting. "Are you saying that _I_ am the one at fault for your desertion?"

The words, rather than the stance, were too direct a challenge and Luke lowered his head, resolve faltering. "No, Master."

He didn't understand, couldn't figure out as yet how the worst transgression of his entire life—desertion; actual dereliction of duty—hadn't sent Palpatine into a spiraling fit of violent rage the moment Luke had returned.

Instead Palpatine settled just slightly, glancing casually back to his work. "I see your toy soldier survived Corsin. I would be curious to know how." He paused just long enough to turn the bland observation into something more dangerous. "…And where he has been in the interim."

Faced with a threat, Luke felt on safer ground. "I don't know if any fragments of the inter-ship comms leading up to the Rebel attack at Corsin have survived," he bluffed evenly, aware that they had—he'd checked long before now. Still, this would be a thinly-patched arrangement of carefully-honed truths, at best. One which would stand up to casual scrutiny but no greater defense, if his Master chose to look any deeper. "If you searched any which did for voice-match, you'll find out that Lieutenant Solo commed the _Conqueror_ a short time before the Rebel attack began, trying to warn us that it was imminent and incoming. Unfortunately he spoke to Lord Vader. What Lord Vader chose to do with the information is no reflection on Lieutenant Solo. He gave the warning on an official channel and in good faith to the most senior official present. As far as he was aware, he was speaking to a reliable command presence."

"What a perfectly practiced reply," Palpatine said smoothly, head tilting. "I wonder….do you lie quite so readily for me, when you have to?"

Luke looked down, and Palpatine leaned back in his chair to glance away, nails scratching over the thick saddle-stitched hide which covered its ornate arms, voice bored and dismissive. "If you want to keep your yapping little lapdog, then you may do so. But I'd advise you to put him on a short leash and teach him to walk to heel, because the first time he snaps or even bares his little teeth, I will be taking him away from you and teaching him some real lessons in obedience…" Palpatine paused, coolly civil. "Remember that—remember, when you're convincing yourself that I'm at fault for reacting, that I told you my position and the limits of my tolerance, and you _chose_ to keep him here anyway. Remember it when I return him to you…a piece at a time."

And there it was; the old Sith Luke knew so well. A new face, a new body, tall and straight and in its prime…but the same old festering vehemence lay coiled within it, barbed with familiar threats and manipulations.

.

Palpatine narrowed his eyes as he looked to the wary youth who stood to stiff attention before him, threats bouncing off that calm demeanor. He'd thought long and hard on this—on whether to cut his losses, or invest.

The unpalatable truth was that he needed a capable advocate more than ever, right now. And the boy was certainly that. Being without him, and forced to rely on the barely-trained Mara and Shira in his absence, had noticeably curtailed the timetable for Palpatine's ongoing plans and underlined his need for a Sith disciple.

But the old methods by which he had always controlled the unruly side of the boy's nature were no longer viable, a mix of the youth's passage into adulthood, Palpatine's enforced absence, and the corruption of a year spent out in the galaxy alone at this crucial stage of his advocate's development.

He had options of course, should his hold on the youth fail entirely. But all would take time to assemble and invoke. So he found himself, ironically, in the same position that he had with boy's father, at Mustafar. Given the choice, he would have left Anakin on the bank of the lava flow to die…but his campaign had been at a critical juncture, and he had _needed_ an advocate—a Sith he himself had molded and shaped. And despite limitations, having gained control of Anakin the arrangement had been functional for almost two decades; exploitable. He doubted that it would be necessary to rely on Anakin's son for such a length of time, if his greater plans came to fruition…but for now, he needed the boy. On so many levels and for so many reasons.

Still, it was patently obvious that the dynamics of their relationship had changed, and in order to gain the control he needed Palpatine was aware that it would be necessary to refine his own actions accordingly.

So he forced a thin smile. "However… Solo's presence here is not the issue, for now. He may stay...if you wish. But he is to be told nothing. His security clearances are rescinded, unless he is accompanying you. _You_ will make that decision, as to what he can be trusted with." He paused, looking to test the waters closer to home. "It is, as I have already explained to you, your own unwarranted actions which give rise to…doubt."

"If you want me to leave, say so."

"Leave? You misunderstand." Palpatine rose smoothly and walked round his desk's edge, fingers trailing its cool, polished surface. There was a time when the boy would have retreated a step; now he held his ground, jaw flexing.

Eyes narrowing, Palpatine continued. "Why do you think I would allow a Sith who was not absolutely and unconditionally loyal to me, to live?"

The youth's chin lifted a fraction, still determined not to show fear—but then Palpatine himself had beaten that precise mind-set into him over the years. Perhaps that had been a…miscalculation.

"You forced my hand," Antilles said stiffly. "You pushed and pushed, to breaking point. You always do."

Palpatine's fingernails tacked in brief staccato on the desk he stood beside, annoyance scorching the edges of his restraint. "You broke incorrectly."

"You wanted a reaction—you got one. You made that choice to push."

"I moved to limit damage in a situation that was already out of control…through your actions. You knew the restrictions inherent in your position."

"I have a life. It's not a _position_ , it's a life. And it's mine, not yours. I came back because I…I know that this is where I belong. I know that." His eyes blazed, sense resolute. "But you don't own me. Let's make that clear; I'm not a child any more."

"Are you placing conditions on your return?"

"…No."

"Do you wish her recalled to the fold?" They both knew of whom he spoke.

"No." The boy didn't hesitate—but then he was likely aware of the test. "I don't ever want to see her again."

His face and sense remained unfalteringly neutral, eyes not wavering beneath Palpatine's close scrutiny. Turning away, Palpatine kept his voice casual.

"The network of undercover operatives who worked directly under my command have either scattered or re-appropriated. To be forced to contact any of them now, at a distance and without being able to confirm their ongoing loyalties, would risk tipping our hand too soon. Until I regain complete control on Coruscant I have limited or no access to deep-cover intelligence assets, leaving me effectively blind. I needed an operative in the Rebel nest whom I could trust."

"Why did you send Mara and not Shira?"

Another brief smile twitched Palpatine's lip at the boy's naivety. "Ah, my pretty little Shira is too ambitious by far. One should keep one's friends close…and one's enemies closer."

"And which am I?"

"Only you know that, child."

The silence stretched for long moments…but a lifetime of indoctrination moved the boy to speak. "My loyalties are here. They always have been…you made very sure of that."

"Can you blame me? I saw a child with incandescent power…either I killed him, or I tamed him. You would have done the same."

"Not as you did."

For every threat, Antilles pushed back. Intimidation had always been the basis of their relationship, but the boy had walked on hot coals for too long, and his skin had toughened to the heat. A new dynamic, Palpatine reminded himself. A subtler game.

"Stand by me. Even in our darkest hour you always stood at your Master's shoulder."

Antilles' brow twitched down, confusion and resentment evident. "You always pushed me back."

"I pushed you to excel."

"You tried to break me."

"I tried to make you more than you knew was possible…yet still you fought me. I ask more of you than any other, yes, but only because you are capable of more. We are Sith, you and I. We rise above all lesser beings."

A shadow crossed the youth's face, blue eyes flitting to the side. "I'm…not…sure any more."

" _I_ am sure. And that is enough. Stay, and I will give you purpose again."

"To live in your shadow?"

"No. To stand at my shoulder." Having reached the boy, Palpatine tipped his head to look down on him, voice dripping indulgence. "You had such faith once, child."

Luke didn't raise his gaze. "You bled it dry."

"I made you strong. The greatest trees are hollow within… _that_ is how they weather every storm."

The boy shook his head slowly, frustration and resentment and confusion simmering. He was just barely under control, Palpatine knew. At the very edge of his tolerance, despite his return.

He needed more, to hold this emerging Sith. To bind him back to his Master with as much zeal as the boy wasted on all these petty _associations_ which Palpatine had warned his charge again and again would cripple him as they had his father. These glaring weaknesses which—

Realization, when it struck, was magnificent. Sublime. The _art_ of machination; to transform a petty, mundane hindrance into an opportunity. More—an advantage.

Solo. The insolent, ill-mannered, presumptuous lout who had defied all odds in not only managing to stay inconveniently alive, but having done so, had the temerity to assume that he could simply re-assume his position at the very apex of Imperial authority and dominion!

And based on what? On his confidence that his connection to Antilles would protect him. He hadn't returned here before; only now, when he had his own personal and very effective power base.

Palpatine knew, of course, that the Corellian whom he'd first allowed close to Antilles as a test of his advocate's resolve, was totally devoid of Imperial loyalty—that had been the very point. But despite what were clearly objectionable or even treasonous actions on Solo's behalf, the boy still valued his association with Solo to the point that he'd argue with his own Master to protect it.

That— _that_ —was the relationship! The exact unbendable, obdurate loyalty that Palpatine wished to rekindle within the boy in relation to himself.

But to do so, he needed a model. An example. A pattern to study and emulate. And what better way to gain that, than to watch the dynamic firsthand? To analyze exactly the tone he needed to set in his interactions with the youth, in order to mimic it, in the boy's eyes…

And then replace it. Entirely, and permanently.

Palpatine fought to hold back the smile which would give so much away, because how patent the answer, once seen. How easily implemented.

As he had done so often in the past, he brought up his hand to wrap strong fingers about the back of his advocate's neck, pulling him closer, invading the boy's personal space by force…

It had always been a reliable mechanism to break Antilles' line of thought. Had accomplished more, at times, than the most severe beatings—though they had been more satisfying, to Palpatine at least. But now, he brought Luke's resisting head to rest at the join of his shoulder and neck, in an almost brotherly gesture.

No, things could not return to the way they were, if he wished to retain control—Antilles had made that very clear in his own inimitable way. But given a prototype, a model on which to base future interactions, they could be reshaped. And now, with Solo's return, he had just that. He knew exactly, precisely, what the boy sought, worthless as it was:

"As you grew I sought to be what a child needed; I was your guardian, your patron. I was strength and authority, the challenge to excel. Now, I see that you are no longer a child. Now we are compatriots. Comrades. Allies." He kept his voice quiet, sincere, utterly benign. "Now we are brothers."

.

.

.

.

.

.

The Death Star would be ready to bring online ahead of schedule, a gratifying report, by any standards. Sufficiently so that the knowledge of it brought the brief twitch of a smile to Palpatine's lips as he walked the empty corridor onboard his Super Star Destroyer, features concealed beneath a deep cowl.

It could have been utilized at less than full capacity under the protection of the _Executor_ , but as Antilles had said, it was only fitting that the Emperor return to Coruscant in a manner suited to his status. A manner suited to his intentions, and his nature, and his entitlement.

Its unveiling from the protective cocoon of the shielded Fondor Military Shipyards would mark the start of the new Empire— _his_ new Empire. When the fleet left Fondor with a Super Star Destroyer as a flagship and a Death Star as an emblem of Imperial power— _his_ power—its unveiling would shake his enemies to their cores. He would cut a swathe through all detractors. He would write his name in fire across entire star systems, 'lest they ever again forget who truly ruled. And rule he would—he would start again; rebuild, reorganize, restructure. Raze and tear down anything which stood in his way, fuel to the fire.

Such energy. To be so young of body and yet so veterate of mind. Such drive. Such hunger. Such power…

Tempered by something equally valuable: experience.

Because all this vitality—the knowledge that he could recreate this youthful state at will… it could so easily make him feel invulnerable. But age, ah, it whispered the truth that youth would so recklessly dismiss. The fresh blood which sang through these veins believed itself invincible, as all youth did. But that whisper…that whisper of experience said, _Nearly_.

Nearly invulnerable. _Nearly_ immortal.

To rule a galaxy was no longer enough…when he could potentially rule it forever.

But his guarantee of immortality lay vulnerable, its secret breached. By allies, yes…but he had left his only viable clones on Rhen Var. And that was unacceptable.

He could grow more, of course. The facility at Byss had come online just months before Palpatine's death at Corsin, equipped with both Kaminoan and Spaarti cylinders, enabling fast and slow-grown clones. Spaarti clones were unreliable, but they would suffice, if necessary. The facility lacked just one thing: the genetic material to seed them had not yet been delivered, so the cloning chambers lay empty, awaiting activation. He could provide such material from his cloned body, of course…but there was always the danger of shortened telomeres and genomic imprinting. Such things became apparent only with repeated clone-to-clone prototyping, but it may be imperative at some time in the future to resort to cloning pre-clone cells, and each generation brought him closer to the danger of degradation.

Youth…ah, reckless youth would have told him to take the risk, to send a team to destroy the entire Rhen Var facility and begin again on Byss, when he had regained the throne and Coruscant. Rhen Var was compromised, and he was just months from a triumphant return to power on Coruscant. Weeks, even. The fiery glory of youth which stood straight and strong was all too ready to take that risk…

But, oh…the whisper of experience said no. That part of himself that had lived and died and remembered the void, whispered, _No._

No risks, however small.

He would retrieve the viable clones and the invaluable original somatic cells from their compromised position, then split the existing clones up and move them to safer hides, until the new Byss facility which had received the original somatic cell samples was fully online—a year at the absolute minimum. Then he would destroy the Rhen Var clones himself, to be sure that none could be birthed and corrupted to be used as a weapon against him.

Zero risk.

It required an editing of his plans, of course. A brief diversion to Rhen Var; an incursion into Rebel space to retrieve them. He trusted no-one but himself in this; wished as little of his new fleet to be involved as possible, but at the same time he needed to ensure security. A balancing act, then; he himself leading the incursion, with the details—the truth as to why—not disseminated…and with the flagship of his fleet to cocoon him—more, if he could engineer it.

He had allowed himself to be vulnerable once, at Corsin, and paid the price. He would not make the same mistake again.

And a brief excursion into Rebel-held territory may be a useful thing. A fitting launch destination for the formidable nucleus of his new fleet; show the rabble what their future held, once he had reclaimed Coruscant. Let them quake a little, those planets who had dared to cross him. Let them see their fate and comprehend how closely their wellbeing and their loyalty were entwined.

And the ability to edit one's plans on every level was what had always set the Generals apart from the soldiers. Victors from the vanquished. It was only by constant modification that one achieved success; re-calculating, re-editing, corrections, modifications. Plans must be adjusted and tuned, played to perfection. It was the way of things; when one aspect of the greater plan changed, then all others must amend and mutate, to allow for the disparity. It was no hardship, simply a necessity of power.

Palpatine walked the long grey corridor with neither associates nor bodyguards, the requirements of this present adjustment to his plans demanding utmost privacy. His advocate and the Corellian had been reassigned to their old quarters onboard the _Executor_ , and though Palpatine had never once before deigned to come here, he knew the way.

His decision to come tonight would likely make its way back to Antilles soon enough, through the most direct of means, he was sure. But for now he had made sure that, back onboard the _Executor_ and under Palpatine's watchful eye, the boy had a thousand minor tasks awaiting, all of which drew on both his energy and attention. Fleet movements, security reassessment, ream upon ream of updated intel and mission briefings. He'd even ordered a medical to be scheduled, given the youth's absence—for his own benefit, rather than his advocate's—but it all took time.

And, carefully buried within the pile, was it's true intention: it took Antilles away from the Corellian, who had also been relocated close to Antilles' quarters onboard the _Executor_.

Left the man alone; easy prey. So vulnerable, in fact, that Palpatine could remove this small thorn tonight, if he so chose—quickly; cleanly… but he wouldn't. There were larger games in play, and with any direct threat to the Corellian having already been withheld by Palpatine, Antilles would likely choose to let matters rest with no further action.

Still, Solo was the disparity which must be absorbed and utilized within the greater plan. An irritation which the cognizant could exploit.

Machination; the _art_ within manipulation.

.

.

.

Han threaded a finger behind the high collar of his Imperial-issue uniform jacket in the privacy of his own quarters, loosening its fastening now that he was alone. He'd forgotten how incredibly hot and itchy and just wholesale uncomfortable the damn things were.

A few days into his unexpected return, it still felt more than a little bizarre to be here. Not just here—though that was bad enough. But right back here in the thick of it, at the very axis of the Imperial remnant…onboard the _Executor_ , no less—a Super Star Destroyer!

 _And_ with the Emperor himself haunting the halls…that was surreal.

He hadn't seen him, of course. Subtly-dropped questions here and there among other officers had revealed the fact that practically no-one did—and pretty much everyone seemed happy with that arrangement. The few bridge and security personnel who had seen him expressly _didn't_ want to talk about it.

What they did seem very interested in—weirdly so, in fact—was the kid's return. Or rather, the reason for his absence—the _real_ one, as opposed to the 'setup for an undercover mission' yarn that seemed to have been widely disseminated. Also weird was the general consensus among the Brass, which seemed to be to keep typically tight-lipped about everything going on here, cliques within cliques…until they found out who Han was. Or more specifically, until they found out that he was _with Luke_. Then there was an instant but measurable loosening of the tight circles of those same high-ranking officers who had previously regarded him with distant suspicion. Suddenly, they were the ones pumping _him_ for information:

What had really happened, that General Antilles had left that way? Was there some kind of split in the hierarchy? Dissent, at the highest level?

Onboard any ship on a long tour of duty, scuttlebutt ran riot—there wasn't much else to entertain you. But this felt different; bigger… He couldn't pull it together yet. There was a pretty damn understandable reticence to talk straight, given the men in question and their ranks, but despite Luke's usual cagy reserve when speaking to other officers, as the kid's main military aide Han had received an inordinate amount of requests—strictly verbal—to speak with the kid.

Luke, of course, had dismissed any and all as curiosity, or attempts to curry favor, both of which he knew well from a childhood in the Imperial palace…but this felt different to Han. This felt like it had an objective, however veiled. There was a nervousness throughout the ship, a thread of brittle disquiet that set even Han on edge, and brought to mind with unsettling clarity the first time he'd heard that _tak-tak-tak_ of the Emperor's black cane across the marble-floored grandeur of the War Room, in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant.

He twitched, dispelling the unease which shuddered through him at that.

Behind him the door slid open with a near-silent hiss and he turned, expecting to see Luke, the one person he'd ever met who seemed to think it was okay to simply walk into someone's private quarters like they…

The man who stepped into the room was tall; only an inch shorter than Han, though he somehow contrived to give the impression of standing on eye level, wide shoulders and athletic bearing obvious even hidden beneath the long, inky black cloak and cowl he wore.

Han stared, resisting the temptation to take an instinctive step backwards as the man's presence filled the room. He knew—he knew damn well who he was looking at, here. He'd like to have thought that it was only the unwilling impulse to make an automatic bow that tensed his muscles right now, or even the realization that he was effectively stood in the presence of a dead man…but this yellow-eyed son of a nek had always possessed a coldly menacing edge which fired every trigger of fight or flight in Han.

Still, he held his ground, lifting his chin a fraction as the door whispered closed, confining the two of them in what felt to Han, very suddenly, like a constricted space.

Hands, adorned with weighty rings lifted to slip beneath the cowl and push it back, and Han held his breath, bracing.

The man beneath… Han stared, momentarily lost, uncertain how to react. Despite being in his presence several times he'd never really _seen_ the old Emperor; the man had always preferred to hide himself in the shadows of a heavy cowl. But Han had gotten the impression of age and decay. Of a body bent and spent by the effort of gaining and holding his Empire. Somehow, knowing who this was and despite everything that Luke had warned, he'd expected the same, even now. Expected an ageing crone with sallow skin and wasted teeth and gravelly, grating voice.

This…this was a man in his prime. Close to Han's age, his skin was pale but unmarked, his shoulders wide and straight, long near-black hair pulled tightly back to form a high widow's peak.

Gone was the stoop and the cane which _tak-tak-takked,_ that constant and disconcerting soundtrack tothe inscrutable unseen enigma which compressed and bent the very air about it. The threat here wasn't some imagined specter, it was physical, observable. Deliberate. And those eyes…those unnerving yellow eyes still glowed preternaturally, sharp and penetrating and superior. Seeing everything, judging instantly. Disturbingly clear windows to a self-serving soul.

Han raised an eyebrow; so some things hadn't changed.

Thin lips twitched in brief amusement as those eyes hooded just a fraction. "Lieutenant Solin."

His voice was the same; same tone of arrogant superiority and utter disdain that at their very first meeting on Coruscant, had purposely mispronounced Han's name.

"Solo," Han corrected. "Still Solo."

He hadn't intentionally left off the honorific, but as those hard ocher eyes remained on him, Han realized what he'd done and for a brief, stomach-churning moment recognized that he didn't even know what he was supposed to call the man any more. Was he still supposed to bow to a man who held no official rank, but every possible entitlement? It was patently too late, even had he felt the inclination, which he didn't. But that expectant gaze still held him, and he glanced at his feet, murmuring a quick, "Sir."

"Hn." Voicing a grunt of satisfaction, the man studied Han openly. "It seems that like a rat, Lieutenant Solin, you have nine lives."

"I think that's a cat," Han drawled, the first trace of offence beginning to overtake his initial apprehension.

That mordant smile twitched again in self-amusement. "Ah. Slip of the tongue."

Han held still. Getting himself into an argument with the Emperor himself onboard a Super Star Destroyer seemed the definition of stupidity, even to him.

The man—Palpatine—started forward, yellow eyes going to the high, lozenge-shaped viewport as he passed Han to stand before it, staring out across the hull of the immense Super Star Destroyer, its ashen grey edge knifing into the true blackness of space beyond.

"You have questions," he said, back remaining to the room.

"No Sir," Han denied.

"No?" Palpatine turned a fraction, head tilting. "Odd. I have them for you…Lieutenant."

"I'm pretty damn sure you know where I've been…Sir." Han felt his chest tighten as it occurred to him only now that he was alone; no Luke to bail him out. If Palpatine wanted to arrest, maim or kill him, this was his opportunity. Coincidence…or engineered?

"I do," Palpatine nodded. "…and yet here you are, again. With my advocate. Believing that enough to protect you." Those wide shoulders straightened as Palpatine turned, eyes hardening as his lip lifted to a sneer. He seemed to grow as he did so, cold, calculating outrage increasing that already intimidating presence. "You actually have the temerity to suppose that you can step back into the power and privilege of your old life, because he will protect you….and I will let him."

Han stood his ground, every muscle wired. "See, that's where you've got it wrong. I don't want him to protect me…I'm here to protect him." _From you._ The insinuation was unspoken but obvious.

"And the fact that associating with Antilles affords you the kind of privilege you could never otherwise hope to come close to attaining, has no bearing," Palpatine said in amused disbelief.

"You think I'm back here so I can stand on a Star Destroyer and play soldiers with people's lives for my own gain?"

"Aren't you?"

"I realize that claiming this is asking you to step so far outside of your comfort zone that it's a distant dot, but I don't give a damn about your power-plays—except in how they effect Luke."

Probably shouldn't have said that out loud, Han reflected. But hey, the man could read his thoughts anyway.

As it was, Palpatine stared for long seconds, head tilting slightly in close examination before he nodded slowly. "Ah, your _little_ _brother_. Is that how you think of him?"

There was an invitation to his tone which puzzled Han, but given sanction to voice his opinion, he didn't shy back. "No-one's given a flying damn for him a single day of his entire life, you've made sure of that…Sir. You know, he can't even hold a normal conversation any more. You've got him so messed up that he doesn't even know how to…just..interact with other people. What d'you think gives you the right to do that?"

"What do you believe gives you the right to interfere?"

"With what? You grinding him into submission?"

"Then you wish to take control of him yourself."

"… What? No! I want…I want him to have control of himself. I want him to actually think he can do that, without messing up. That's what you've got him believing, isn't it? That he can't exist without you. That the only way to avoid screwing anything and everything in his entire life up, is to defer to you every damn time."

"He has autonomy enough."

"As long as it suits your needs…Sir. And if it doesn't, that's okay 'cos you already have a thousand little power-plays hidden in there to chip away at him, until he doesn't even know what he thinks any more."

"And what do you tell him you would you have him be? What do you want for him?"

"I just told you, I want him to not be afraid to live his own life."

"Even if that life is here? Serving me."

Han clamped his jaw, frustration firing.

"Ah, then there are conditions," Palpatine pushed.

"The kid is what he is, not what you want him to be," Han held. "He'll see that eventually."

"He is what _I_ am," Palpatine corrected. "He is Sith. Are you telling me that you don't judge him, even in that?"

Han straightened a fraction. "I'm here, aren't I."

"He has the same powers that I hold…you understand? Can you even begin to comprehend the vastness of the galaxy in which we exist, compared to your dismal existence? You look at him and you see a boy—a _brother,_ no less;the most insolent presumption. You don't understand—how could you? We transcend. This…crude matter which you must drag through your sad, constrained little life; we surpass it. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you that he too can be immortal—he can conquer the death which will eventually take you and all of your kind, no matter how you rail against it?"

The revelation stunned Han to silence. It had never even occurred to him before; that the kid might be able to do what Palpatine had. Luke had never once admitted to it—but then he always played down all his abilities, didn't he? Masked them or smothered them.

Those pale, thin lips taunted with another empty smile. "He could be, by his own choice, immortal. What does your petty little soul have, that could come between two such beings?"

Han stared, speechless for a long time in the face of the chasm that the claim presented…but realization slowly surfaced from the depths of doubt, and knowledge of it gave him voice: "Faith," he said categorically. "Friendship. Belief. Hope. When have you ever given him any, for even one damn second?"

"And you think these flimsy little musings of equal value to all that I can offer?"

"It's not what I think that counts. In case you hadn't noticed, all that you can offer wasn't enough to hold Luke here."

"It was enough to bring him back to me."

"Only after all his options were…" Han trailed off, realization widening his eyes. "You did it, didn't you?! You somehow arranged those deaths so it would look like Luke had done it!" For a brief, triumphant second, his thoughts went to Leia; to her relief, when he told her. Her dogged faith in Luke, her—

He blinked, breaking the thought in the fraction of a moment. _No; stay focused on now._ That was what the kid had taught him; keep your thoughts on what's safe. _Concentrate: now; right now._ "Does Luke know?"

For a second Palpatine stared, and Han's heart made a single, heavy thud beneath his ribs, for fear of being called…then those ocher eyes flicked aside as Palpatine's features bled into an unsettlingly familiar thin, satisfied smile. "Of course he knows. But the truth remains the truth, no matter how harshly it is communicated."

"Even when that truth is that you had to lie and kill, to get him back?"

"You say that as if it as a bad thing, Lieutenant. It merely demonstrates the strength of my commitment—the boy understands that." Palpatine nodded slowly, his conviction absolute. "Thank you; this has been…educational, in more ways than I had anticipated. I confess, I had felt a trifle unsettled by your reappearance. Now…I have confidence that all will proceed as I have planned."

It was Han's turn to narrow his eyes. "Yeah, 'cos the kid really is that predictable to you, right? That whole stealin' a Star Destroyer from your fleet and heading off to Rishi, that was all part of the plan, wasn't—" He broke off, regretting his taunt; making this man uncertain of Luke's loyalty could only tighten the screws further.

But in fact Palpatine grinned—the first genuine smile that Han had seen on him…

And it was all-hells scary.

"You misunderstand, Lieutenant. For a brief moment, I actually feared that you might be able to take him from me. That perhaps an inability to comprehend or a natural disinclination to mimic what you so naïvely offer him, might cause me to lose him. But it is so blindingly uncomplicated. So utterly obvious. So very mundane. I am not threatened by you, because you will never take the boy from me, much as you try. It will never happen because in the end, your intentions suffer a fundamental flaw: you are simply not willing to go as far as the situation demands."

"I'm not willing to rip the kid apart entirely just to get what I want out of him, no."

"Call it what you wish. It remains the reason that you will fail. Because I am willing to push him to that degree, every time. To take that risk, on his behalf."

Han nodded, finally seeing the source of the kid's most ingrained trait. "All or nothin', huh?"

Again that smile, full of self-congratulation. "All or nothing. If you push the boy hard enough, he eventually shatters spectacularly…as he did onboard the Rebel Destroyer, just before returning to me. I quite enjoy the spectacle, to tell the truth."

"I'll bet you do," Han growled. "But just remember in the back of your head, whilst you're watching the show—remember that sooner or later you're gonna choose the wrong fight, the wrong risk, and he's gonna turn just as spectacularly…on you."

That grin widened, to show the pearl-white teeth of a true predator. "Or you, Lieutenant Solo."

The door slid silently back and Palpatine lifted his hood as he stepped into the battleship gray corridor beyond, that impressive frame somehow instantly hidden; an anonymous shadow who stepped just a little too lightly down hallways that seemed to darken a fraction with his passing… leaving Han alone, listening to the pounding rush of his own hyped heart.

"…. Well at least he got my name right."

.

.

.

.

.

.

With no other seat available, Mara dropped down into the shuttle seat next to another 'tech whilst the ramp lifted and the door closed and sealed, popping her ears as the cabin compressed for flight.

She'd hoped to find a two-seat to herself, or at the very least a crew member who wasn't talkative, but the woman smiled instantly, plump cheeks rounding as she tucked her loosely curled brown hair behind her ear.

"Hey. Uh…I know you. You were from the _Pride_ , right?"

Mara turned a fraction, taking in the 'tech's round face and open smile. "Yeah. You were one of the snub fighter's ground crew."

"Kai, yeah. Wild few weeks, huh—you know, the _Pride_ and everything. Did you get off on a shuttle?"

Mara glanced down, tempted to indicate her low opinion of the inane question by stating that no, she hadn't gotten off, she was still there…but the woman was only trying to make small talk, and it didn't do to single herself out here with too dry a persona, so she glanced away. "Yeah."

The 'tech—Kai—leaned in, and Mara felt a brief, intense flare of fractured recognition; _something_ … It hit her a second later; it was the scent. The 'tech had been smoking spice recently. It smelled bitter…it smelled of Luke.

"You know," the woman said quietly, "I heard who did it—who took the _Pride_."

Mara turned, suddenly intensely interested. "Who?"

"Well, it's only a rumor. In fact, I kinda wonder whether it was the Brass trying to cover the fact that he'd been onboard. You know—double-bluff, that kinda deep epsionage stuff."

"Who was it?"

"We were talking about it—the Rogues—and we wondered if it was to re-set his cover. Invent a reason for his having been onboard a Rebel ship, when he's supposed to be Imperial. I mean, there's no other reasonable explanation for how just one guy could commandeer a whole Star Destroyer, right?"

"Who are you talking about?" Mara was one step from grabbing the woman and shaking her.

The 'tech glanced aside then leaned in further, voice lowering. "There was a Rebel agent onboard the _Pride_. It was all very hush-hush, because he normally worked behind Imperial lines. We knew him—the Rogues. We knew him pretty well. He—"

"Did he tell you that?"

"What, that he was an agent? No, they don't ever admit to that kinda thing, that's what Wedge said."

"He wasn't a Rebel. He was Imperial."

Kai stared for a second…then shook her head. "No…you didn't know him. He wasn't Imperial."

Mara glared at the back of the seat in front of her. If there'd been any other seat in the damn shuttle she would have stood and walked to it right now, despite the short hop over to her new assignment onboard the _Ardent_ being halfway there, already. But there wasn't. And she should stay, anyway. She should stay right here and feed the woman—someone who clearly couldn't keep her mouth shut—damning information that she knew her master wanted disseminated about Luke, to cut his ties here irrevocably. She should do that…

"Maybe you're right," she murmured quietly at last.

She feigned sleep the rest of the journey, as much as she could—as much as the chatty 'tech would let her.

But no matter how unwillingly, her mind kept drifting back to Luke. To what she'd done, on Palpatine's command. When she'd spoken face to face with her master just days before she'd left on assignment—long before he'd known where Luke had run to—he'd coaxed with hushed and somber tones that he needed Mara to comport herself with the professional manner that he had previously believed her capable of, for Antilles' sake as much as her own. When she returned Antilles would likely be back already, he'd claimed, giving her the opportunity to exemplify her maturity and her worth, by taking it upon herself to bring her ill-advised _dalliance_ with him to a decisive end, of her own will. Then it may at least help Antilles to come to the same realization. There was but one focus, he'd underlined, and that was to secure his Empire. Other petty asides could not be tolerated. When she'd remained silent, the lockjam in her throat swelling, he'd allowed that perhaps in the future, when the Empire was more stable, allowances might be made…

It was a falsehood, of course. An empty concession made to ease the hard facts. And knowledge of that had made it so much harder when she'd finally come face to face with Luke, knowing what she must do. That much harder again, when he'd made the offer that they both simply slip away into anonymity.

Had it been cruel then, to succumb one last time in the hushed secrecy of a familiar hideaway, onboard a stolen Star Destroyer? It had been, for her, the last meal of the condemned, one final flare of a doomed and dying comet as it fell to earth.

It was over. _Over_.

So why did she still wear a tattered foil ring on a thong about her neck?

.

She allowed herself to be nudged awake by the 'tech when the shuttle set down in the new Destroyer's bay, and walked down the ramp onto the flight deck of what would be her new home for the foreseeable future, eyes tracking the middle distance of the busy hangar…

It had been hard, to manipulate her reassignment to where Palpatine had ordered—very hard. By necessity, the personnel from the Destroyer that Luke had reclaimed—a fact that still both amused and secretly, in her heart of hearts, impressed Mara—had been spread far and wide across the Rebel fleet. Having slipped amongst them with the cover-story of a technician whose last legitimate job had been civilian maintenance of door and comms systems on some low-level Imperial military hub on Teyr, she had the kind of wide-ranging technical skill-set that could prove useful on any ship, from automated sewage plants up to ship-wide comms and starfighters. She could, effectively, serve anywhere. Which meant that the very thing which had helped to blend her into the background when she'd first arrived among them, had made it so much more difficult to fulfill her new mandate. But she'd done it; she'd been reassigned to the Destroyer _Ardent,_ one of the Rebel fleet's few Mon Cal battlecruisers, financed through their increasing control of the Rim regions.

As she crossed the bay of her new objective, her eyes tracked for familiar faces…and there, stood beneath an X-wing in deep discussion with its pilot, petite frame instantly recognizable to Mara even with her back turned, was the Rebel Jedi Leia Skywalker.

Mara glanced for barely a second without breaking her stride, then let her eyes drift on, apparently uninterested. But her thoughts lingered on two things; firstly, Palpatine's directive that Mara was to avoid the Rebel Jedi at all costs, despite his initial command assigning her to the Jedi's previous base-ship, and with the breakdown of that situation, here…

And secondly, Luke's face when they'd spoken onboard the _Kathol's Pride_ , those unexpected blue eyes sharp and shrewd: _"Your mission…was it to get close to the Jedi, Leia Skywalker?"_

At the time she'd dismissed it, as Palpatine had done with her when she'd raised the subject prior to departing. The Rebel's troublesome pet Jedi would of course be onboard one of the few Rebel ships worthy of infiltrating, meaning that Mara had been the one assigned the mission specifically because her Force training would enable her to avoid the Jedi's suspicion, as no other could. It made perfect tactical sense.

But with the dissolution of the _Pride's_ crew, of all the ships in the Rebel fleet, he'd ordered Mara here. Alongside Leia Skywalker.

And yes, there was a logic to it. The crew of the rebel flagship _Home One_ were subject to intense background scrutiny, and among the few other Mon-Cal Battlecruiser-designation Destroyers that the Rebels held, the _Ardent_ was well-placed in terms of rank, technology and reputation, which made it as obvious a choice for their resident Jedi as it would be for an Imperial infiltration agent.

Still… there were no such things as coincidences—not in her master's world.

Mara frowned, thinking again of Luke's question about Leia Skywalker… Considering the manner of his escape from the Rebels, which had scattered the crew of the _Kathol's Pride_ far and wide, separating Mara from the Rebel Jedi entirely, had she not worked every possible angle to gain a place onboard the _Ardent_ , as instructed.

And she wondered; given his training…were there coincidences in Luke's world, either?

.

.

.


	27. Chapter 27

.

.

 **CHAPTER 27**

.

.

.

Han woke early. For a few moments his addled brain strained to decipher why he was in the wrong quarters onboard the _Kathol's Pride_ …then reality snapped in about him, and the impersonal, spotlessly clean officer's quarters onboard the _Executor_ finally made sense. Not the reassuring, comfortable kind—more the lead weight in your stomach, make you sigh out loud variety.

Rising, he padded barefoot to the fresher, wondering what time the kid had gotten back to his own quarters last night. He'd listened out for a while, intending to regale Luke with the fun-time story of _How the Born-Again Emperor Came to my Quarters to Mispronounce my Name whilst Leveling Threats_ , but had given up on waiting well after midnight, heading to his bed just as the Super Star Destroyer had launched to lightspeed.

Walking from the fresher, he glanced to the viewport, realizing that they were back out of lightspeed and…

Han stopped dead. He just stopped dead to stare, mind scrambling to catch up with what he was seeing. Was he asleep? Was this a dream, or—

He stumbled to the viewport in a daze, eyes never leaving the spectacle outside…and it just got bigger, every step he took. It just kept on expanding, because no matter how close he got it was too big to take in, a brooding orb that filled the view entirely, a nightmare-memory made real again, its colossal mass a hostile menace that loomed ever larger in the darkness.

The entire equatorial ring was complete, sealed and skinned, with an array of bright docking bays casting harsh light out into the irregular surface of a wide, deep trench, the blue-white coronas to the bay's outer edges indicating that atmospheric shields were in place. But a good half of its curved outer hull remained unskinned to top and bottom, giving wide vistas of internal levels lit by endless worklights, droids visible at the closest curve as pinpricks of light, flitting like flies within the bare, arching ribs of the metallic carcass. Construction ships of every kind moved in and out of open-to-space levels, their numbers only serving to emphasize the vastness of the project they worked on… And on one side, surface completed, with webs of tiny lights marking internal levels now sealed and operational, was a single, huge concave disc.

It was a Death Star. Another Death Star. Bigger by far than its predecessor, a monster of immense proportions, huge enough to dwarf the substantial bulk of Fondor's Military Shipyards.

They'd started another Death Star. Were building it now—had damn near completed it…

Han finally tore his gaze away from the leviathan to look again at the shipyards behind it, Fondor itself a dark, distant orb. There was a vague, fluid shifting of space behind the Death Star itself, like looking at a reflection on water, indicating that they sat within the influence of a privacy shield. Everyone knew that Fondor's military shipyards had a Primary Mass shield—it was what had kept the Super Star Destroyer that he now travelled on secret from the rest of the galaxy for almost three years of its initial construction, whilst Palpatine had still been on the throne. But it hadn't been used since then, the energy consumption necessary to maintain the eighteen shield stations at constant capacity untenable, even at the peak of the Empire's power—unless you had something incredibly important to hide…and the authority to simply walk in here and say, 'Fire them up'.

He was still staring, still struggling to fathom the far-reaching implications of what he was staring _at_ —when the comlink on his desk pipped for attention. Assuming it was the kid, Han walked quickly round to read it. It was, indirectly: a standard summons to the _Executor's_ main docking bay, to accompany General Antilles on a trip to the new Death Star…and the Emperor's presence.

.

.

Han strode across the busy docking bay to where a tri-wing Lambda shuttle was powering up, the kid stood beneath it reading a datapad. To the casual observer Luke's stance was relaxed and confident, mind lost in his task… but Han knew him better; could see the tightness with which the kid gripped the datapad and the fixed way he stared, jaw tight, brow knitted. He was nervous—and Han figured he knew why.

His shoulders tensed as he neared the kid, voice coming out as a hoarse growl as he reached Luke who, with typical Sith senses, turned a fraction before Han spoke out.

"So at what point were you gonna tell me about the Death Star?"

"Pretty much now." Luke glanced to the side still without turning, that casual mask intact as his eyes skimmed the busy bay.

"Is that thing worki—"

"Not here," the kid hissed quickly—and despite his anger, Han remembered where they were and what he was shouting about.

"Sir?" The copilot took a step down the shuttle's ramp, struggling to make a decent salute on the steeply angled surface as he held Luke's eye. "We're ready when you are."

"Let's go."

Luke turned and walked into the shuttle without looking to Han, who gritted his jaw and followed.

He couldn't speak for the first few minutes because the door to the cockpit remained open until they had launch clearance, meaning that the pilot and copilot were effectively listening in. So he had a minute or two of sitting and stewing, in which a few more things tied together from the kid's stay onboard the _Pride_ , to finally make sense.

The Rebel sortie, for one. That was why Luke was so wired when Han and the Rogues had tried to infiltrate Ghost Fleet. That was why he knew that the Empire's defenses would be so strong; he knew what they was so hell-bent on hiding—knew that they'd kill to protect this kind of intel.

Speaking of which, Han's mind was already spinning to try to figure out a way to get this info to Leia. He had a standard military comlink of course, but any reliable, untraceable method of getting info out long-distance wasn't exactly freely available here. Maybe if he could… Han paused, glancing to Luke. Because Palpatine had made it patently obvious last night that Han was being tolerated here only because of the kid, which meant that any action Han took reflected directly on Luke.

Luke, who hadn't wanted him here in the first place…and yet Han knew damn well that if he left, the kid would crumple under the outrageous pressure and give up all the independence he'd invested years of hard knocks in gaining.

Plus Han didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave the kid he'd invested so much in—the kid whose life was a harsher replay of his own youth—alone. It was that simple. Palpatine had called it exactly; Luke was like a brother to him. And despite that crusty front, despite the kid continually pushing Han back in an effort to protect him…Han knew damn well that deep down, Luke didn't want him to go, either.

He sighed, shaking his head as he tried to figure a path through his own conscience, all screwed up within the quagmire of confusion and ambiguities that ran like a mother-lode through Luke's own life. Sat in silence as the shuttle dropped clear of the _Executor's_ docking bay, it occurred to Han for the first time that it was very likely costing the kid a hell of a lot, to keep Han here. To keep him safe.

And there was a Death Star outside. A Death Star. Kid hadn't wanted Han to come back because he knew the complications that this knowledge would spark. In fact he'd been carrying around that same internal conflict the whole time he'd been onboard the _Pride_. He'd said it himself; everything was a trade-off for him: like if he could somehow make that deal with himself that he wasn't betraying old loyalties, then new ones—his sister, and the life she wanted for him—could somehow be shoehorned in.

But he couldn't live like that. No-one could. Han blinked, scowling past the growing headache that was beginning to pulse across his temples…

Was that what Palpatine was doing—was he just sitting back and watching the cracks widen, knowing that the last time he'd intervened, the kid had stormed outta here? But knowing damn well that he didn't need to risk the same again, because no-one could live like this for any length of time.

Luke, he could compartmentalize his mind like no-one Han had ever known; he'd had to learn from childhood, or go insane. But he was skimming the very brink of that complex personal code with no safety net and, just as Palpatine had alluded to last night, all the wily old Sith had to do was stand back and wait. Too many secrets. Too many compromises. Too many cracks in an already fractured psyche.

What would Han be adding, if he went behind the kid's back to tell the Rebellion about the Death Star, knowing that his actions were Luke's responsibility? What would it cost the kid to try to keep Han safe, then?

And in view of all this, what the hell play had Palpatine made, by coming to Han's quarters last night? Was that what the yellow-eyed son of a Sith was even hoping—that Han would compromise security, and in doing so force Luke's hand? Did he _want_ Han to tell the Rebellion, or threaten to Luke that he'd do so, forcing Luke to take sides? Or was he expecting Han to withhold even the fact that Palpatine had shown up last night?

"You are overthinking this _way_ too much," Han muttered to himself…and then double-thought even that—because _was_ there such a thing as overanalyzing, when Palpatine was concerned?

His mind moved on to mentally playing out the pro's and con's of admitting to the kid that, having first carefully made sure that Luke was busy elsewhere, the yellow-eyed Sith had shown up in his quarters last night.

In _no_ version, did that conversation go well.

But he had to say something. He glanced to the side; Luke was so wound up right now that even Han felt his temples tightening in the confines of the shuttle's small passenger compartment. As they cleared the _Executor's_ atmospheric shields his thoughts flailed for something to say that would break the tension…

Kid beat him to it, shaking his head minutely as his eyelids flickered, gaze remaining on the datapad on his lap. "Just…would you…stop whatever the hell it is you're trying to figure out, because you're going to make _my_ head explode, never mind your own."

"I was thinking about—"

"Please don't tell me it's Leia," Luke said in hushed, sardonic tones. "Because you need to get her out of your head entirely. Remember what I taught you on the _Relentless_. Remember that mindset."

"No, the Leia thing's settled," Han said firmly. He had a tack on that—a long-term plan. "No, I was thinking about…y'know…so…we're going to see a dead man, huh?" Not his best effort at breaking into a line of conversation, he had to admit.

Luke raised his eyebrows without lifting his head, voice dry. "Oh, he's very much alive. Take another look out the viewport, if you don't believe me."

Han glanced to the small viewport, taking in the daunting sight as they skimmed beneath the vast shadowed hull of a supposedly unlaunchable but now fully active Super Star Destroyer, its gargantuan proportions dwarfed by the immense bulk of a near-complete Death Star.

Couldn't really argue with all that. Or the knowledge that only Palpatine himself not only could, but _would_ assemble this kinda firepower.

He shook his head. "I should'a guessed that if old Yellow Eyes did step back into the galaxy fully rejuvenated, he'd choose _this_ as his commencement speech."

"It's not rejuvenation, he hasn't made himself…young again. He died—he actually died. But he transferred his essence—his mind, his consciousness—into a clone. A younger clone. It's called essence transferral."

Han was silent for a long time, thoughts from the previous night crowding in. In the end, they all came down to one thing. "Can you do that?"

"No."

He studied the kid's face as Luke stared resolutely at the datapad, Palpatine's claim to the contrary still ringing clear. But there seemed no side to Luke's curt denial, no attempt at deceit. If anything, he seemed oddly determined. Han frowned, Palpatine's words replaying in his mind: " _He could be, by his own choice, immortal"_.

 _Could be_ … _by his own choice_. Not _is_. Han felt a brief smile twitch his lip; kid had turned him down. That was the look on his face and the tone in his voice right now; good ol' Luke Antilles obstinate refusal. Look at that—sometimes it _did_ work in Han's favor!

"What about Leia?"

"It's not a Jedi ability, that I'm aware of." He paused, voice taking on a wry edge. "But then I'd guess the Sith would be the last to know. I don't know, I don't think so. When we spoke, it didn't seem that way."

"…Your father?"

Luke looked down. "I told you, Palpatine doesn't share. You know that."

"He's willing to share this with you though, to keep you here…isn't he?"

Luke dragged his hands through short-cropped hair in his characteristic show of agitation. "He needs me."

Han sat back slightly. "No. He needs to control you…that's a different thing altogether."

"He…" Luke glanced quickly up, mind running ahead of his words as he fathomed the facts. "Wait, how do you know he…have you spoken t…when did you speak to him?"

Han made a brief, twingeing shrug of acknowledgment; hadn't kept that one quiet for long, had he? But then again, why should he? He paused at that, wondering what had made him want to do so in the first place.

But the kid was already leaning forwards, words tripping over themselves as he pushed for more.

"When—was it yesterday—last night? How long did he stay? What did he say—exactly. What _exactly_ did he say?"

"Calm down, he didn't say anything much."

"He always says something, even if he's not speaking. If he bothered to come down to your quarters, it was for a reason."

"I think it was just to dole out the usual threats."

"He doesn't repeat himself, either. You had the riot act read to you once before. You don't get reminders, you get reprisals. What exactly did he say?"

"He said you could do the…y'know…essence..thing."

"How—how did he say it? Context?"

"What? No, listen;" Han leaned back slightly, feeling the kid was missing the point here. "He said you could do it too—but you just said you can't."

"I can't. It's a learned skill."

"So he offered to teach you…a bribe to keep you here. Keep you with him."

"Did he tell you that?"

Han blinked, aware that they were having two different conversations. "I'm asking why you turned him down?"

Luke shook his head rapidly. "Why did he tell you—tell me the context, what did he say?"

Sighing, Han conceded, knowing he'd get no sense out of the kid until he did. "He was saying that you were Sith, so you could do what he could do. The rest I worked out when—"

"Before that—what did he say leading up to it?"

"Uuh… he said…something about me trying to control you. Me!"

"And…?"

"That's when he said you could do what he could do."

"Why? He didn't just spontaneously say it."

"I don't know, he was saying…that we had nothing in common, you and me. Said what right did I have to come here, what did I have to offer, by comparison."

"You didn't answer, did you?"

"No! …A little bit."

"Ohhh," Luke buried his head in his hands, voice quiet and flat as Han continued.

"I…might've said something about whatever he'd tried hadn't been enough to hold you."

Kid didn't move, his words murmured between his hands. "What else?"

Han paused, remembering more, now. "He said it'd been enough to bring you back here—and I knew, I knew then that it was him, wasn't it? It was Palpatine who somehow framed you for the deaths of Harken and Rax onboard the _Pride_."

"Just tell me what else he said." The kid's voice was flat, words spoken within a sigh, his head down, though his hands had dropped free.

The picture of resigned damage-control, Han reflected.

"That was it. He said I wasn't a threat, because…because I wasn't willing to go as far as he was, to control you."

"That's it?" Luke asked, doubtful. "He came because he saw you as a threat?"

"Hey, don't sound so skeptical," Han said, offended.

Luke glanced to him from the edge of his vision. "Right—you're a threat to a man who can't be killed. A Sith Master."

"If he's so indestructible, who did we kill at Corsin Drydock?"

"And if he's so easy to kill, who are we going to see, right now?" Luke shook his head. "It had to be more. He wanted to see you personally…so he wanted to know something specific."

"Yeah—whether I was a threat!"

"Did he try to lead you at all, lead your thoughts?"

"What? No, I'm not new at this, you know! I got you to drink that mug full of spice and sedatives, didn't I."

Luke glanced away, chewing at his thumbnail, eyes on the viewport without seeing.

Han glanced out to where the kid was thoughtlessly staring…and did a double-take, infinitely more impressed—and daunted. It may be only half-completed, but the closer they got to one of the shielded equatorial bays the more detail became obvious, with pinpricks of light increasing into the wide runs of viewports of diverse size and breadth, the serviceable rooms behind them manned and functioning, each a hive of activity.

This was bad. He shook his head, dragging his attention back to the moment.

"My point is," he pushed forward, "the guy outright admitted that he was lookin' to control you. Seriously— _seriously_ , all duty and vows and obligations aside—you gotta wonder what's wrong with this…this life you _think_ you've chosen, if that's what it amounts to. And how long will it be, Luke—this commitment he straight-out demands? If he really can just keep on respawning, how long? A lifetime? Not his— _your_ lifetime. Your entire lifetime, whatever that is, start to finish, no reprieve. Think about that."

"You think I don't?" The weary tone of Luke's answer, his whole reaction to Palpatine's constant scheming, gave Han a flicker of hope that maybe—

Luke straightened in his seat, shoulders squaring. He'd turned away from Han as he'd spoken the last, eyes drifting to the viewport as the shuttlecraft came to a smooth landing in one of the part-completed Death Star's massive equatorial bays.

Now his voice dropped, entire attention turning to the bay outside the shuttle. "Shira."

"What?"

"Shira Brie," Luke said flatly. "Rear Admiral Brie; Palpatine's new Director of the Ubiqtorate."

"Friend of yours?" Han craned to see, getting a brief glimpse of a wide white line of white-armored stormtroopers as they came to a halt behind a gaggle of black-clad officers, but no more.

"Friend may be an exaggeration."

"By how much," Han growled. Kid had said more than once that politics and fist-fights were the same thing, at this level of Imperial power.

"Well, she once shot me at point-blank range with a stun-bolt."

"That's not so—"

"Then injected me with strychnine."

"Ah."

"Repeatedly."

"Great."

Luke shrugged, leaning back. "To be fair, she told me in her defense that she was reasonably sure it wouldn't kill me."

"Yeah, you have the nicest friends," Han deadpanned.

Luke rose as the shuttle set down parade-ground smooth into the pristine bay, ramp already lowering. "Except I don't think she's my friend any more."

.

It was a cavernous bay, easily ten storeys high with three ship-lifts to one side, whose deep shafts descended into darkness. The bay itself exuded the hectic order of a military vessel, lined with Lambda personnel shuttles, their wings lifted in neatly corresponding rows, the huge banks of lights casting fractured shadows across their darkened viewports.

Their own shuttle had set down to the center of the bay, close to the reception committee. The woman, Brie, was stood a step ahead of some Moff Han didn't recognize, as if this was her command. Petite but athletic, like Luke she wore what had to be a bespoke tailored Ubiqtorate uniform like she lived in it, the matt black serge setting off the intense amber of her hair, cut to the sharpest bob Han had ever seen.

The double-row of stormtroopers snapped to smart attention on the spotless black deck as Luke stepped from the shuttle ramp, and it was a moment before Han realized that this was for them; this was for Luke and the woman, Shira Brie. This was because the Director of the Ubiqtorate was meeting the Empire's Lieutenant General URL, onboard the new Death Star.

And it all came home in a rush. These people, these… _kids_ , they were the new Empire, being built.

Did they even realize it themselves?

He'd've liked to have said no; that they were just that; kids, with no idea of the greater galaxy—the treachery and the double-dealing and the hypocrisy that passed for politics and power-mongering. But they squared up to each other like old hands, Luke with his eyes on the rows of parade-straight stormtroopers as the petite redhead in the tailored uniform stepped forward, her sharp features arranged into a wily smile.

"General Antilles." Her green eyes were shrewd and hard like cut glass, her tone a fraction too familiar and amused. "Welcome to the Death Star. And back to the fleet and the fold…again."

"Admiral," Luke's eyes remained on the stormtroopers. "Enjoying playing with your paper title, I see."

"As opposed to trying so hard to ignore the opportunities that have been handed to you on a plate, Antilles?"

He glanced away, seeming instantly bored. "You know me. Habitual wastrel."

"Well they say the first step to overcoming a problem is admitting you have it."

"I have you, stood here. That's a problem."

Her lip quirked briefly. "I was sent to escort you. You have something of a reputation for disappearing without warning…General." She stepped aside, indicating with her gloved hand. "This way."

Han fell in a half-step behind Luke, trying to stay close enough to hear the conversation above the clatter of regimented steps from the stormtroopers who fell into pace two steps behind, as they traversed corridors so new that you could practically smell the paint.

"So," Luke said with dry disinterest. "Settling into your new job, I see. Make the most of it, we'll probably have reached Coruscant within a month or so."

"And when we do, we'll be invincible." She straightened a fraction as she said it, utterly confident.

As ever, the kid was supremely unimpressed by smug posturing. Instead his eyes strayed a fraction to the side to study her, his interest in the imposing space station clearly zero. "You really don't understand, do you? You've been given a title that somebody else already holds. She's running her faction of the Imperial remnant from Coruscant, based on that rank."

"Isard will be removed from her position as Director of Ubiqtorate Operations when Palpatine retakes Coruscant."

"No she won't. You will."

The woman tilted her head, as used to playing this game as Luke was. "Wishful thinking."

"Only on your part, if you think it won't happen. Isard will keep her position as Director of the Ubiqtorate because the moment Palpatine turns up with the Ghost Fleet in orbit, she'll fold. She'll see fifteen Star Destroyers, a Super Star Destroyer…and a Death Star, and she'll relinquish command to him immediately. She'll do that because she's smart enough to know that it's better to sit _somewhere_ at that head table than it is to risk being the meal. The moment we take the active Death Star out of Fondor Shipyards she and every other would-be climber with delusions of grandeur will know the game is over. The race is run. They lost. All that's left for them is to fight amongst themselves for the scraps of power he chooses to throw to them."

It was that usual brand of hard truth and dry putdown that Han knew the kid spouted without hesitation, both at others and at himself. You had to say that for him; at least he was fair. Didn't make it any easier to hear, though. The woman, Brie, stared with a fixed smile, though Han could see some of the surety draining from her eyes…then she squared her shoulders, causing the barest crease in that immaculately-fitted jacket.

"None of which makes Isard any more likely to remain in control of the Ubiqtorate than I am."

Luke shook his head slowly, voice somewhere between pitiful and taunting. "Yes it does. Because she caved—or she will, when the time comes. She's conceited and she's egotistical and she's self-serving…but she's not stupid. She never commits the ultimate transgression of over-ambition. You…you still want more, even now. The Ubiqtorate isn't enough for you, as it is for her. You're not a threat to Palpatine—not on your own—but you're high-maintenance, Shira. Believe me, you always were."

"I was also dependable. I've stood in Palpatine's shadow my entire adult life and serv—"

"And that's what you see it as, don't you? Because you want more. You think he doesn't know that?"

Her eyes narrowed, striking features pinched to a scowl beneath the harsh lights of the long corridors. "What are you telling him?"

Luke shook his head, sounding as if this was old ground being re-trodden. "I'm not telling him anything, Shira, you know that. I don't need to whisper secrets. He is, without exception, the most suspicious, distrustful man I have ever met. He doesn't trust me, he doesn't trust Mara…and he sure as hell is watching you."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I told you before, we don't have to be enemies."

For a second the woman stared, as if trying to contemplate the impossible…then her expression shifted, hard lines transmuting to something infinitely more inviting…but calculating as well, Han saw. As dangerous as the station they were walking through right now.

A smile curved those full lips. "Maybe we should discuss this later…?"

Luke shook his head, amused. "We've played that game already, and neither of us were really that sincere."

"Oh but it was such a fun game."

Her hand went to his arm…and he barely swayed away, almost allowing the touch—which straightened Han's back in surprise as he walked, mentally reassessing. She was, in retrospect, stood a little closer than Luke allowed most to stand, her manner a fraction overly-familiar. Something ticked away in the back of his head; something the kid had said once….what was it?

Brie's voice had dropped to beguiling tones. "We could pick up exactly where we left off. The perfect pact. You want certain things…and so do I."

Han's eyebrows raised with curiosity, though the kid's reply made it clear that he was far less interested as Han watched him tilt his head in a half-shrug.

"But your problem remains the same now as it was then, Shira; you have nothing that I can't get elsewhere, easier and with less risk."

She moved closer—intimately so. "Sometimes the risk is worth it."

"Sometimes…not this time, though."

Brie angled her head, flashing wily green eyes through long lashes, and Han had to admit she looked the whole package, practically purring her next words. "Think about it."

Luke had leaned back just slightly as the petite woman tilted in towards him, his lack of interest undisguised. "Fine."

"Think…" Those red lips pouted as she arched an eyebrow, wrinkling her nose in a teasing whisper. "… _hard_."

They'd reached a large set of double-doors, outside of which were stationed twelve stormtroopers whose right shoulder pauldron was scarlet red. Han frowned, not having seen it before, but already his mind was making the connection; Scarlet Guard. Palpatine's traditional honor guard.

Brie snapped her gloved fingers. The drill-sergeant called the small company of stormtroopers behind them to smart attention on cue, enabling her to step to the side without once looking, her eyes remaining on Luke as she walked away with her white-armored accompaniment, her presence obviously not required.

Han watched her hips sway, that smooth sashay and fitted uniform providing the kind of exit that left an enduring impression—he had to say that for her.

.

.

.

The standard shipboard pressure doors opened into a larger space, obviously designed for formal gatherings. New and pristine, the polished black floor of the vast room reflected banks of subdued lighting set far above in fluid, complex curves, and the long run of floor to ceiling viewports provided a wide vista of the Fondor Shipyards, its white surfaces and bright lights a jarring contrast to the dark space through which Han and Luke walked, the air about their boots cold from their proximity to open space in a ship not yet fully activated. There were perhaps twenty officers to the far side of the room, at least half of them displaying the kind of rank and insignia which made Han twitchy, the rest wearing their all-black Ubiqtorate uniforms like a second skin.

To the far side a set of double-doors remained closed, with another four red-pauldroned stormtroopers stood to smart attention, this set sporting force-pikes rather than the ubiquitous E-11 blaster.

Palpatine, setting up Court, Han realized. They weren't even back on Coruscant yet, but those in the know were laying their claims early—and Palpatine was likely encouraging the game he knew every rule and cheat for. He ought to; he'd invented it.

Funny; it really was painfully familiar, even to Han. Could've been two years ago, the first time he'd walked into an audience with the Emperor, a step behind this spiky, volatile fifteen year old kid who could do impossible things. The setting was grander back then, sophisticated marble slab instead of utilitarian battleship ascetics, and the numbers greater, but… Hell, here, like this, it was like he'd blinked, between then and now.

For Luke…the kid had grown up in this environment; this was a homecoming. Like his Master, he knew every play and bluff in this milieu. There had to be a kind of comfort to that. There had to be some part of you, however reluctantly, that unthinkingly dropped back into long-established routine.

Luke was two steps ahead of him, back straight, stride even, walking forward like he belonged. Because you had to, here. You had to be that person, all or nothing, just to survive.

This was the wrong place for him to be. Han felt a chill in his stomach which had nothing to do with the cool air rolling in from frigid space outside of those wall-spanning viewports.

This was all kindsa' wrong.

.

.

.

Palpatine settled back into the grand chair that had been installed on his command to the head of the cavernous audience chamber, as his advocate approached. Alone. Despite Palpatine having ensured that the summons to come here had been sent to both the boy and his aide, Solo.

He could sense that bristly presence to the other side of the tall doors which slid silently closed behind his advocate; knew that Solo was waiting, and would wait as long as necessary. Typical Corellian stoicism.

Still, Solo had unknowingly bought himself further reprieve in their meeting last night. Initially his presence had been tolerated solely because it kept Antilles amenable, and because Palpatine wanted to identify just exactly what it was that made the boy so committed to Solo, in order to replicate it for his own benefit. Before, the man had been a necessary irritation. Now, he had become instrumental.

Antilles walked in calmly measured paces across the mirror-polished deck of the wide, dark chamber towards his Master; if there was one thing that Palpatine had purged him of, it was fear—for himself; his wellbeing, his fate. Not a shade of it clouded the boy's senses. There was nothing that the universe could do to him that he hadn't already borne to some degree; Palpatine had seen to that, in educating his Sith advocate. He nodded, proud of the rigorous doctrine he'd enforced. Commitment was the key, both in the Master towards his pupil, and in the advocate to his Master.

This advocate was young, as yet. A year in the wilds had turned his head, as would be expected…but it was nothing that Palpatine couldn't reclaim, if he moved with care. And everything was now in place.

So he smiled as Antilles dropped warily to one knee on the hard, cold floor, pleased that such a protocol was being reinstated, even grudgingly.

"Welcome to my new flagship, General Antilles. The ultimate command for the ultimate goal; universal rule."

Antilles stood, keeping wisely silent.

Palpatine took a moment to study him again, and couldn't resist a small dig. "You seem to be missing something…ah, your little Corellian shadow. Did he not receive my summons?" He paused just long enough to watch the boy scrabble for and mentally construct an excuse, then when his mouth opened to convey it, Palpatine interrupted as if the question had never been asked. "The _Executor_ will launch in five hour's time, in the opening move of my crusade to reclaim what is mine _._ "

The boy looked up quickly. "Five _hours_?"

Having delivered his first bombshell to good effect, Palpatine continued as if nothing had happened. "You and, I suppose, your little Corellian shadow will accompany me onboard, as will Admiral Brie."

His advocate let out a brief, silent sigh at having been kept unapprised thus far. "The mission?"

"We will head counter-spinwise at lightspeed through the Inner Rim and the Expansion Region, then onwards along the Perlemian Trade Hyperspace Route to cross over hostile borders into the Outer Rim. By first shift three days from now we will curve back, amalgamating pledged resources and ships from new allies before rejoining Ghost Fleet, which will have been doing that same throughout the Colony systems. The augmented fleet will then travel inwards through the Core Worlds to retake Coruscant, annihilating any who oppose us."

This would be the inaugural debut of his new Imperial Fleet—his new Empire. He would unleash it as an extension of his own will against those who had defied him. And then with such internal bleating quelled, on the true enemy; the Rebellion who had dared to engineer his death. Let them learn that their Emperor was a true Sith; that even death could not bring him low.

The boy moved slightly. "Brie and myself should be the ones to retrieve your clones from Rhen Var onboard the _Executor_. You shouldn't travel into Rebel-held territory."

Palpatine stared, surprised how quickly Antilles had unraveled the covert reason for their chosen route—but then perhaps he shouldn't be; he had trained his advocate himself, and taught the boy well.

Still, his lips pulled to a thin smile. "You think you know your Master's mind now, child?"

Antilles chin twitched at the appellation _child,_ and Palpatine made a brief, mental note to adjust his approach if he was to replace the Corellian in the boy's eyes. Or perhaps it was simply Antilles' realization that Palpatine did not trust him entirely—not yet.

But then how could one trust what one could not control completely? He relied on the boy far more than any other, but he did not have total command…yet. So he forced his voice to a more tolerant tone. "This is something I must attend to myself, Luke."

The perfect pitch; the boy straightened a fraction at the use of his given name. "I can do this. You can trust me."

"Trust you? Trust the boy who failed to stop his father, despite a direct command."

Antilles ground his jaw, shaking his head slightly. "I was drugged and I was weak, and you knew that when you sent me after him."

"I trusted you with one simple act, the fulfillment of which you had begged for." Palpatine kept his voice soft despite the taunt in his words. "One command...which you failed, utterly, to uphold. By choice."

"Not by choice. By…" His advocate cut his own words short, but this was further than the boy had allowed himself to be pushed since his return—perhaps the occasional play of brief benevolence was of value, then.

"Luke…?" Palpatine prompted, slowly. "If we are to redefine our association, then we must be past withholding opinion."

The boy braced a fraction, then met his Master's eyes. "You were wrong to send me."

" _I_ was wrong?!" The words came out harsher that he'd intended, but the directness of the criticism had made Palpatine's temper flare. "You asked, you _begged_ me for permission to take his head, not a month before."

"I didn't know the truth—I didn't know because you kept it from me."

"Because you were weak, and I knew it."

Antilles' chin rose, head shaking. "I am _not_ weak."

"You are weak, you are impulsive, and you are volatile." His words were clipped, returning to their familiar tones despite his intention.

The boy took a step forward, voice rising, hand closing to a fist, one finger pointing, though it remained down. "You force my hand—again and again!"

"And when you left the _Executor_ —when you went running to the Rebels, no less?!"

"I didn't _go to_ them, I was injured. On your command."

So he hadn't sought them out. Until now, Palpatine hadn't been entirely sure. How useful, this modicum of tolerance which the Corellian employed, to open the boy's mind. Could he push just a little further, prize out the truth? "Because I could not trust you, Luke. Because once again it was necessary to save you from your own impulsive actions."

"You didn't trust _me_?!" Another unknowing step, and he was almost to the edge of the low dais on which Palpatine's chair rested. "You lied to me my whole life. You killed my guardians, my father…you took away everything—every single thing of value in my life—and still I served you! How much can you ask?! How much can you keep on taking, and not expect some kind of reaction? And _still_ I stay, even now! Despite everything I'm here, protecting you, serving. What do you want, what—"

"Shhh—shh,shh," Content, Palpatine rose to step forward, arms reaching out benevolently as he stepped from the dais.

The boy backstepped of course, hands lifting in denial of this long-standing contrivance. But there was nowhere to go, and his Master's arms enveloped him, voice low, a soothing veneer laid over his hidden amusement that he could still incite this reaction. "I forgive you. Absolve you. We begin again, from today. My advocate, my brother in arms. We begin again—the slate is clean."

He murmured empty forgiveness, his arms about the boy unyielding in their hold, reducing Antilles to uneasy silence, head down, arms crushed to his own chest, hands clenched to fists—a final barrier, even now.

"What I know that I can trust, what I have absolute faith in, is that you will make amends," Palpatine murmured. "For your father's actions, and your own. I ask nothing unreasonable—I never have."

His advocate said nothing, body tense. Palpatine pushed him back, holding his shoulders though the boy kept his eyes down as his Master spoke, a habit ingrained since childhood. "I allow you so much—concessions that I would give no other. You think I don't know the Corellian's allegiance? Yet he lives, he breathes, he walks free and unhindered at the very heart of my Empire, because you—" Palpatine paused, lowering his voice to condescending pity. "you still have some broken need within you, that makes you believe you can trust an outsider—the man who stands by choice amongst those who plotted your own Master's downfall."

"He's…" The youth broke to silence, his uncertainty, his confusion, palpable.

"You cannot trust him," Palpatine said quietly; gravely. "You can never trust what you do not control completely. Eventually he will betray you—and then what will you do?"

Finding use for the Corellian in his greater goals, Palpatine knew he must give the man a long leash…for now. But seeds must be planted, for plans to grow to fruition:

"He does not _belong_ here," Palpatine emphasized.

The boy shook his head a fraction, though whether it was in agreement or denial Palpatine didn't know. His advocate's mind remained tightly locked down, shields within shields… but then that always the case, now. Trust had not yet been fully reinstated, even if loyalty had.

But Palpatine had greater intentions, tonight—though they were, in many ways, intertwined. Such was the nature of complex strategy; each block must be made to fall in sequence, to shape the path forward.

Tonight was a testing of the waters for his greater plan. Tonight was the beginning of the end, for the last Jedi. The thorn in his side—and more importantly, in his advocate's dedication—must be pulled cleanly, now, before matters complicated further upon their return to Coruscant. This meeting sounded out the first potential peal of her death knell…with the Corellian unknowingly pulling the rope.

Because there— _there_ was the second reprieve which the Corellian had unknowingly bought for himself last night. A whole new thread of possibilities uncovered in a split-second's lapse, through Solo's pitiful desire to authenticate his _brother's_ innocence among the Rebels. For all the good that it would do to substantiate such innocence, anyway; Antilles was here, not there—and Palpatine intended to ensure that he remained so.

But Solo's brief flash of unguarded triumph at Palpatine's machinations had revealed far more than he'd intended. Within the man's crowing realization of Palpatine's involvement in the boy's alienation among the Rebels, his mind had strayed for a fraction of a second. A brief frisson of memory had formed and flitted away in a single heartbeat—

But that was enough to establish the association.

Solo knew the Jedi woman personally. He _knew_ the Jedi. And far from being an obstacle, discovering it was a positive, if unanticipated, boon.

Now Palpatine had a near-direct link to her—which meant that he could control precisely what information reached her, and when, without risking Jade's cover. And not only could he allow that information to leak for exactly as long as he required it before he cut it off, but he could use its very existence—the disloyalty to Antilles which Solo's betrayal represented—to pull his advocate further back into the fold.

Previously, in his greater plan he had intended to rely on Jade to subtly feed information back to the Rebels which would draw their Jedi in. But there had always been a risk that in doing so Jade may bring herself under scrutiny too soon, and her true loyalties be revealed. Solo…Solo _knew_ _the Jedi personally._ What an opportunity to revise and reinforce Palpatine's plans. To twist Solo's actions to nothing more noble than base scheming intended to repeat the very thing which had cast Antilles into a year of misery and ripped the very core of his world apart just a year earlier. This, when the boy risked so much trying to protect his supposed comrade; his _brother_ —what a play to hold!

The smile on Palpatine's lips widened to a satisfied grin; sometimes the Fates surprised even him. And the art—ah, the art was to take that opportunity with both hands and make it his own!

But to do that he first needed to know the strength of the connection between the Jedi woman and his advocate. Needed to uncover whether Antilles knew of their shared heritage—the one complication as yet not locked down.

So he released the boy's shoulders and turned to take a step away, eyes travelling the distant Fondor shipyards and the lethal lines of the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ , allowing his advocate the illusion of safe distance, in order to draw him out. "But you seem intent on keeping your toy soldier, so if you are sure—if you are _sure_ your choice is the right one, against my advice—" He paused divisively, aware of the boy's carefully-cultivated insecurity about his own inability to make the right choice. He should know; he was the one who had instigated it.

Given his intended manipulation of upcoming events, this would prove to be another hard-learned lesson.

But as such, Palpatine couldn't be seen to be culpable in the outcome, so it was important that he offered gracious acceptance, even when he visibly disagreed. "Then I will concede. Once again, I will indulge you. If you wish him to stay, the decision is yours, and yours alone."

He smiled, content that he had driven home the point that the boy had made this decision himself, to a sufficient degree that the fact would not be forgotten when it blew up in his face. As it would—Palpatine would see to that. "But we stray from our intended issue," he added mildly, turning back.

"The _Executor's_ mission." The boy was all too eager to change the subject.

"The Rebellion's destruction," Palpatine corrected, taking the conversation where he willed.

Antilles frowned, instantly on rocky ground once more. "You said your first intention was to retake Coruscant."

"So it is. And from there, I will launch a campaign to destroy the Rebellion that dared to move against me."

"The stabilization of the Empire is paramount."

Palpatine tilted his head at the directness of the challenge. "Are you dictating to me?"

The youth stared…and for a moment Palpatine thought that he might actually go through with the challenge. Then his eyes flicked to the side, head lowering a fraction. "No, Master."

Seeing the boy consciously back down, Palpatine made a show of doing the same, though in fact he'd had no intention of going after the entire Rebellion as yet. But it had gained him the chance to appear to compromise, whilst leading the conversation to his desired goal. "Perhaps I should reassess my plan…rationalize it. Those who took part in my assassination at Corsin however, I cannot leave unchallenged. To give them continued free rein would be foolhardy in the extreme." He glanced to Antilles, voice hardening a fraction. "Or do you believe that I should give those few who were bold and capable enough to move against me previously, the time to regroup and re-plan, that they may do so again?"

His advocate remained still, eyes skipping the polished floors in thought. "The Rebels will be less of a threat when you re-take Coruscant."

"As they were at the time of my assassination?" Palpatine asked pointedly.

Antilles was silent, no answer to that.

"In any case," Palpatine continued without waiting for comment, "the Rebellion will be no threat if I simply remove its head now, whilst I still hold the element of surprise."

Antilles glanced up. "Mon Mothma?"

"Mothma is irrelevant," Palpatine dismissed. "The real threat is the Jedi, Skywalker."

He was watching closely for a reaction, expecting either flat, dispassionate acquiescence or some brief, half-hidden panic; either way, a tell of value… So when the boy instead straightened, gaining rather than losing composure, it was unexpected.

"I'll go after her," His advocate broke a beat, tone carefully pitched. "Or was that always Jade's mission?"

Palpatine stared for a moment, aware of the premeditated nature of the question. Was he himself the one being played, here? He glanced away, voice meticulously impassive.

"If it had been, then your reclaiming the Star Destroyer from which both she and her potential target operated would have been severely disruptive."

"If her mission was that important, then maybe you shouldn't have ordered her to deviate from it." Antilles' voice, his manner, his entire sense was utterly, flawlessly neutral.

"Are you saying that you undermined her mission out of spite?"

"I'm saying I was, once again, kept unaware of the facts. Which placed me, yet again, in a situation in which any outcome could be interpreted as damaging."

Palpatine felt his lip twitch of irritation at being called on the tactic—particularly since he was undertaking the same, right now. Yes; it was time to establish a new set of controls. He forced a smile, aware that he needed once again to appear to relent the point; concede the battle, in order to win the war. This was simply a testing ground of the boy's feelings in this—and they were strong.

"Fortunately Jade's mission whilst onboard was to gather Intel, no more." Which was true; he would never have had the final confrontation take place onboard a Rebel Destroyer, so far from his direct control. No; he had always intended it to be closer to home.

"It's an unnecessary risk."

Palpatine's eyes narrowed. "Do you seek to protect her?"

"The Jedi?"

 _Interesting_. "Jade. Either."

"I'm trying to protect you!" There was a twist of anger in Antilles' voice; at his own slip, perhaps? "Going after the Jedi now—singling her out—is a division of your attention and resources at the wrong time."

Confident that he'd set his advocate off-balance Palpatine paused, finally able to cut to the chase. "Tell me…did you speak with her, when you were among them?" He pushed no further, wanting an unbiased reply, and the boy hesitated…

"Yes."

"And what did she tell you?"

"Nothing I hadn't heard before."

An avoidance. "And what had you heard before?"

Again the boy paused, visibly discomfited. "That there was another path. Another way to live my life."

"How very poignant. Did she also tell you that no Sith has ever crossed the divide?"

"She didn't need to. I already know."

"… And what else did she tell you?"

Antilles lifted his head to meet his Master's eyes—and again there was that shift, as if the boy somehow gained rather than lost composure under pressure. "What else was there to say?"

Palpatine studied him, senses straining…but in place of those familiar diamond shields a soft, pliable haze gave ground beneath his onslaught, folding in on itself like smoke, dense and impenetrable but utterly without substance. No shield to accuse the boy of hiding behind, no easily identified sense of evasion, no Sith's harsh and absolute control.

"Master," Antilles repeated mildly. "What else was there to say?"

There was an openness to the question. A request beyond the obvious, to drop all pretence and power-plays and simply speak and receive the truth.

Palpatine's eyes narrowed, calculating… Oh, but the youth was getting clever, if he felt cornered. Honing both his edge and his nerve, that he was willing to test his mettle against his own Master.

Truth—the ultimate power-play. The definitive dangerous gamble. Even a Master such as Palpatine would have considered carefully the risk of such a play, here; in this.

Palpatine felt his lip quirk a fraction. No; he would not succumb to this reckless, audacious gambit. He would not be cornered, particularly by his own advocate. "She surely tried to lure you away—to turn your head from the only true path to power?"

"With what?"

Did he know? To ask the youth outright would necessitate Palpatine admitting that he too knew the truth—and had, by extension, chosen not to speak it. This, when the boy was still smarting from Palpatine's withholding the truth about his father.

Stalemate. And when had the youth that he himself had taught, gained the shrewd insight to do this to his Master?

"You wish me to say something," he prompted at last, turning the question from himself. "Something specific."

"Only if there's something to be said, Master."

"Are you testing me… _me?"_

The youth held for a moment…but the directness of the challenge from one whom he had acquiesced to for so long was too great, and he moved just fractionally, eyes flicking briefly away. "No."

"But you are. What did she tell you, in her ploy to drive a wedge between Master and advocate? Tell me?" He'd turned it around, because the boy hesitated. Palpatine pressed, giving him no time to recover. "What false compassion was uttered with feigned sincerity, to lure you in?"

"None."

"And yet you stayed. What could she possibly offer, to hold you? Because she could not cage you against your will; you proved that when I forced your hand. So what did she say, to steal your trust from me. to knowingly take all surety away and leave you foundering. Look—look what she has reduced you to."

"You did that," he said quietly.

"What I did—all that I told or withheld—was to give you strength, Luke. To give you peace; certainty. She did it to keep you caged. She wanted you to stay, didn't she? Stay by her side, meek and docile and impotent, all power severed, a shadow of your true worth. Look at you—look at what she's taken from you with her whispered venom. All that I did, I did to take away your doubts. What she did, she did to feed them. And she did it consciously, with deliberate intent—can you not see that, whatever she told you?"

"She never lied to me."

"The truth can be just as calculating. Just as injurious, whether malicious or not. She simply cloaked her efforts at control in contrived and worthless compassion. She saw a frailty, a failing which she could exploit—and you let her. Are you so naïve?"

"I'm here, not there," the boy said evenly.

"Because I forced your hand."

"You forced me away from them. I came back here of my own free will."

Palpatine stared, considering…. The youth was avoiding; evading. But was it the blanket evasion that typified their every interaction as the boy had grown, craving autonomy…or was it something deeper that was left unsaid?

Though what _had_ been spoken aloud was the truth; whatever the Jedi had tried—whatever secrets she had whispered, if she herself even knew—had failed. The advocate had still returned to his Master.

The question was…was that enough? He had the boy's loyalty, he knew that. But he wanted more.

"Have I lost you? Have I lost the advocate who vowed so many times that he would give his life for me?

Antilles' head dipped, gaze dropping. "That was never enough."

"It was everything," Palpatine said simply; the truth, for once. Palpatine pressed the persuasion, resorting to what had always been his most effective ploy. "Luke…" The youth lifted his eyes a fraction, pulled in. "Give me your faith, and I will hold you steady. Give me your devotion, and I will give you a life worthy of that. I will give you purpose, I will give you power. I will give you immortality."

Again that sideways flicker of lucent blue eyes at the last, as if the ultimate prize was somehow lost on the boy. Yet how could he not want it? Why did the mere speaking of his name, recognition in even the simplest form, mean more to him?

Palpatine could give him everything. Power, wealth, rank; a position second to no other save the Emperor himself, in the entire galaxy. The boy well understood this—understood all that was on offer. Yet he hesitated.

Palpatine leaned in, persuasive. "Tell me what you want, and I will give it to you."

Antilles brought his gaze back to his Master, and for long moments Palpatine watched so much pass across those cobalt blue eyes, so much like his father's.

"Autonomy," Antilles said at last, intensity holding his voice hoarse. "Acknowledgment."

"I will give you that. You will be my lieutenant, Supreme Commander of my armies. Everyone will bow to you."

The youth shook his head in frustration, indifferent to the accolade. "No. They're empty titles, used to control those around you. You think I can't see that? You said yourself that you don't even trust me."

Palpatine smiled into the naivety of those words. "There can be no trust without control, child."

"Then how is it trust?" Antilles asked, still shaking his head. "Nothing has changed."

"I'm offering you all the power that your father once held."

Once more the boy surprised him with his answer, stilling before he murmured quiet words, at once needing and reluctant to hear. "Did you kill him?"

"I did not," Palpatine said gravely.

How gratifying to be able to say that, and have it be the truth. How perfect. He would have, given scant minutes more. But the fact remained: "We argued, we fought…but I did not kill him. The Rebel attack which took my own life also took your father's—exactly as they intended. Not me; them."

The boy glanced down, frowning as he sought to internalize an unpalatable truth, then brought his eyes up, searching his Master's face. Palpatine softened his self-satisfied grin to a smile, knowing the power of the facts that he had withheld until this perfect moment.

Had he not warned the boy that the truth could be just as calculating, just as injurious as any finely-honed lie.

Palpatine took the youth's shoulders. "But now I can share with you the knowledge to survive even that. Together, we can be invincible. Unstoppable. Sith law states that there shall be but two."

"Master and apprentice." The boy's head shook just slightly in ready denial—but now Palpatine knew why. He knew the lure to dangle.

He clasped Antilles' shoulders tighter. "Comrades. Brothers in arms."

" _There can be no trust without control_. You just said those words exactly."

"Then give me control—of my galaxy, my entitlement. Give me that security, that prerogative, and I will trust you as I have trusted no other. Give me your allegiance, Luke, and I will build an Empire with it—which you will command in my name."

There was something in the boy's eyes as he said the last. Something weary and resigned in his voice as he laughed mirthlessly, looking down. "Maybe we do belong together. You've lived a lifetime already and yet you look so young. And sometimes…sometimes I feel so old." He glanced up to his Master, eyes searching. "Can you understand that?"

Palpatine brought one hand to the boy's shoulder. "You're tired, I understand that. Tired of constant changes which shift the ground beneath our feet with every step. All this will settle when we return to Coruscant. All will be as it was before."

"Of course," the boy said flatly; quietly. "Of course it will."

Antilles let out a long, slow breath, and Palpatine nodded, satisfied that despite the boy's misgivings he had turned the tide of the conversation sufficiently to his own advantage, gaining all that he could, for now. "This moment of doubt will pass, when we return to Coruscant. When all that was, is reinstated, and we are in our rightful place once more. Remember that. For now, this discussion is done, my friend. Everything is decided."

The youth pursed his lips briefly, though there was no real animosity behind his next words, only a jaded acceptance. "Everything was decided before I ever entered. It always is."

"Yet your advice is appreciated."

"But never taken."

"Rhen Var is too important." In more ways than Palpatine was willing to admit; it was the obvious spot to lure the Jedi woman close, precisely because of its location over Rebel borders.

But today had been invaluable, in clarifying the details of the plan. No matter how carefully the boy hid the details, he obviously had some kind of investment in the Jedi woman. That was clear—as was the depth of feeling which he still attached to his father's death. To be able to place Vader's death squarely on the shoulders of the Rebels was advantageous, but having swayed the fragile state of affairs in his favor, there was nothing to be gained by Palpatine testing his advocate's faith any further. He wanted the Jedi woman gone; she represented a threat to both himself and his advocate's attention. But he wouldn't involve the boy in his sister's death, as he had in his father's. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

The subtle raising of his index finger allowed him enough control to release the tall double doors to the darkened Audience Chamber, loosing a wide flood of light from the starkly military corridor beyond, a hard reminder that Palpatine remained at present dependent on his fleet, rather than ensconced in the planet-spanning fortress that was Coruscant.

No matter; he would be there soon—and for now, his enforced reliance upon this technology enabled him to appear vulnerable, to draw in his prey. Speaking of which…

Palpatine subtly turned his advocate toward the tall double-doors of his new Audience Chamber, even taking a few steps with the boy as he guided him forward, waiting until they were at their widest…

The Corellian, Solo, was still stoically waiting outside. He took a few steps closer, bringing him almost level with the open doors as Antilles reached their threshold, and coincidentally giving him the maximum chance of hearing Palpatine's words.

With a wide grin, Palpatine baited his trap with the first morsel of information for Solo to pass on, speaking to his advocate without once looking to the Corellian: "You have five hours to review the mission data before the _Executor_ launches, General Antilles. Make use of them."

Antilles turned, jaw flexing. "To do what?"

"Protect your Emperor—we will be in Rebel-held territory." _There: there was the bait._

The boy frowned. "I've told you my objections and offered an alternative. But as ever, I'm simply here to do your bidding as any other soldier would. I may as well wear white armor."

"If you simply did my bidding, then I would consider it progress indeed." Palpatine tilted his head, keeping his tone light. Wanting the Corellian thinking only of the facts he had overheard and not some imagined argument, he pulled up a retort sure to silence his advocate. "Perhaps then, it would not be necessary to salvage my senior staff from the complications of their own ill-advised affairs."

A blast of ire radiated out from the youth, at Palpatine's coded reference—an effective end to the conversation as well as a little self-indulgent twist of the knife in place for the Corellian's future. When all plans were played to term and Jade's identity became clear, a reminder of the words Palpatine had spoken today would enable the irascible Solo to recognize their premeditated nature, and understand that he had been played from the very beginning. There were no accidents here, no chance occurrences—let the Corellian understand that. It may very well be the last thing he ever realized.

.

Settling back, Palpatine smiled as the doors closed, leaving him alone with his thoughts, replaying the specifics of their conversation over in his mind.

Did the boy know the truth about the Jedi woman…or was it the same simple sentiment which Antilles had always been predisposed to? Either way, it seemed that some kind of bond _had_ formed. Unfortunate, but it could be prepared for.

Palpatine hesitated, dragging one long fingernail across his lip as he considered…

Might the Jedi, too, be manipulated by some misplaced need to _save_ his advocate? After all, what might she see, when she had looked him in the eye?

A slow smile spread his lips wide:

When she had looked into those as yet unchanged eyes, had she seen within them the possibility, however remote, to salvage a soul from Darkness? Surely she wasn't so naïve as to think that a Sith could be so easily quantified by something so utterly irrelevant?

Surely not.

True, he had harried the boy many times for the same flaw, but he did not for a moment believe that the boy's unchanged eyes had any true bearing on either his allegiance or his commitment. Still, any additional leverage would be welcome in drawing the woman in, and if the boy did feel something for the Jedi, then all the better, surely? The plan would only benefit from his desire to protect her.

Because when he failed and she died, it would not be Palpatine who was the culprit.

He had made sure of that—had already spun that particular thread of his web out, in teaching Mara Jade the necessary lightsaber skills, and placing her close to the Jedi. Aside from returning regular reports as each step of Palpatine's plan progressed, his long-term intention to incite duel between the two women remained the optimum outcome.

He hoped that his little Jade jewel would triumph, as she had a rare clarity of purpose in her dedication to her master which he did not wish to lose. But one should be prepared to sacrifice even high-value pieces, to the greater game; he had more than once risked his advocate's life, when the greater plan demanded it. Now it was her turn—and whatever the outcome she would serve him, even if in death. He knew the boy still had feelings for her, however repressed or denied.

If the Jedi woman killed Jade in a duel then it would surely sever any attachment between Antilles and the Jedi. When Palpatine then turned on her himself in the supposed throes of spontaneous revenge, any resentment that his advocate felt would be overcome by his rage at losing Jade.

And if Jade killed the Jedi, then that same flaw of sentiment would instead serve to effectively cut any ties between his advocate and Jade. Machination, as opposed to simple manipulation; the _art_ of playing one's problems against each other. How much more rewarding; how much more gratifying, to have engineered a duel in which either outcome benefitted Palpatine, and Palpatine alone.

He simply needed to ensure the duel's eventual occurrence. Close at hand, where all facets could be carefully controlled. And Solo—ah, Solo himself would do that, now, passing on measured increments of carefully-placed intel to draw her in. With the Corellian's unwitting collusion then Palpatine could easily engineer a situation in which Leia Skywalker would eventually come, even should her brother try to stop her. She was her father's daughter, he was sure. Just as impulsive, just as reckless, just as willing to risk all, for foolish sentiment.

It was the same with all their bloodline; incredible power and potential, crippled by that one fundamental weakness. Though perhaps he should not fault it too much; it had, after all, given him control of Anakin for two decades. And in that time, it had given Palpatine the chance to claim and train his replacement. The actual conferral of duty from one to the other was not without its problems, but the potential that Anakin's son represented made the risk worthwhile, for now.

And a lifetime of indoctrination had ensured that unlike his father, the boy held his Master's life above his own—and he would every single time. In the end, it always came back to that; the boy's broken sense of worth, compared to the innate loyalty that Palpatine had pummeled into him.

In that contest, Palpatine would _always_ triumph.

The high double doors to the audience chamber slid open again and Shira Brie, his sharp little knife to twist in Antilles' side, the distraction to keep the boy preoccupied as only another Force-sensitive could, walked forward.

She paused before her master, bowing low. "The Death Star will be ready to launch in seven hour's time, as ordered. The lightspeed matrix is beginning calculations for its jump. I've made plans for you to transfer with a full security detail over to the _Executor_ , then to transfer covertly back onto the Death Star before it launches for the Outer Rim in five hours. No _Executor_ personnel are aware of the second transfer."

He nodded slowly, satisfied with both his immediate and long-term goals. Pleased with his own machinations.

The boy may complain when the truth of the _Executor's_ unexpected escort came to light, but he would acquiesce in the end, as he did in all things—in matters far more important than this.

Yes, the boy would defer; his Master's life before his own. As long as that fact remained—and it would—then all was going exactly as planned.

.

.

.

.

.

Han glanced sideways to the kid, who scowled darkly as he strode down the corridor back to the docking bay.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

"Really? 'Cos I can actually _see_ a little black cloud hoverin' over your head."

"Can we not talk about this right now?"

"Fair enough." Any and every audience with Palpatine left the other party like this to some degree, Han knew. Every single one was a boxing match with shadows, in which somehow the blows against you were very real. His own fleeting but memorable experience last night had borne that out. He glanced down, looking to change the subject.

"Your ex-friend the Ubiqtorate boss came back to see if you were still in with Palpy," Han tried at last, to break the silence as they walked the corridors back to the hangar.

He saw the kid's face twitch into a brief smile, instantly quashed. "Palpy?"

"Palpatine."

" _Palpy_?" Luke repeated, some of his ire lifting.

"You know, for someone who says she's dangerous—someone, I remind you, who can themselves make people's heads explode, but still thinks _she's_ dangerous—you really don't seem to be trying to play down the hostility any," Han commented, moving the subject on from his slip.

"I prefer her as an enemy," Luke said, eyes returning ahead with studied indifference. "She's gonna do the same things either way. At least now I don't have to smile at her whilst she's doing them."

"I don't get it," Han said quietly, as they traversed the wide corridors. "You look at her and you see it all—every scheme and tactic. You look at Palpatine…what do you see, Luke?"

"I see someone I have to smile at, whilst they're doing it."

Han blinked at the throwaway comment. It wasn't a slur, precisely—kid hadn't actually admitted that Palpatine's actions were wrong—but it was an admission, in a roundabout way, that Luke himself didn't agree with them.

Two officers walked past them from the opposite direction, saluting Luke as they did so. Han kept his head down and his mouth shut until they were past, still feeling very much like he was in the wrong uniform…then glanced sideways at the kid, freshly aware of his own odd position here. Of how much the kid was risking, protecting him. "So…if your whole life's divided into those two groups…what d'you see when you look at me?"

Luke glanced without meeting Han's eye, and he knew that this was one of those rare occasions when he'd caught the kid off-guard entirely, so waited it out.

"I see someone who asks way too many questions," Luke murmured at last, answering and avoiding, in one.

"Yeah, but I ask the right ones," Han said, confident of that. "What did he want, anyway?"

"Who, _Palpy_?" Luke said with a grin. Then his face fell straight. "You heard what he said; we're launching in five hours."

Han was silent a moment. "… Are we going after the Alliance?"

"Not immediately, no. But he will, eventually."

"Are we headed to Coruscant?"

"No."

"Because if he gets his throne back on Coruscant then everything we've done, everything we've gained, is gone. You know that."

Luke's head tipped a fraction to look at Han. "We?"

Han ignored the pointed question, slowing to a stop. "If he gets to Coruscant, it's over. He'll rip the Alliance apart. You don't want him back in power, I know you don't." He was forced to break off as four stormtroopers passed in a regimented walk, attention dead ahead.

Luke continued with only the slightest pause, though his voice was quiet. "You've changed your tune in the last hour. On the shuttle over here, you were telling me straight out that he's not immortal."

Han took a few long strides to catch up. "Yeah, well, he seems to be doing a pretty damn impressive impersonation."

They walked in silence for a few steps, each lost in their own thoughts.

"It requires certain parameters, though," the kid said quietly at last. "You need to have a vessel to pour your consciousness back into, for it to work."

"A vessel?"

Luke didn't look to him, eyes ahead, voice thoughtful. "A clone. Maybe he could do the same with any pliable mind—I don't know. I don't think he'd ever entirely subvert the mind he'd inhabited unless it was a blank slate. I don't know for sure. But you'd need a Force-sensitive host, if you wanted to continue accessing your power. Without that, you'd become…mortal. You can't transfer your consciousness again without the Force."

"… So what happens if he hasn't got one?"

The kid hesitated… "I don't know. I don't know how long his consciousness could hold cohesion without a body. I'd have to access the holocrons."

"The what?"

"Holocrons. They're…receptacles of Sith lore—or Jedi. Sith can access Jedi holocrons, though they may not get much information, but Jedi open up a galaxy of problems if they try to access Sith ones."

"Why?"

"They're…it's an interactive matrix designed to emulate the mind of the person who made it. You need to be Force sensitive to open one in the first place, and if you do, you need to be capable enough to hold your own against what's inside. That's why a Sith can open a Jedi holocron, but Jedi shouldn't try to access Sith ones."

"So…what's in 'em—why bother?"

"They're the accrued wisdom of the individual who made it. You want to know what they knew, decipher their abilities…you have to open their holocron. That's where Palpatine learned the techniques to transfer his essence. He must have combined the knowledge from several Sith Masters. No one individual had ever fully refined it, and clearly none had access to the same number of holocrons that Palpatine has accrued."

"Where are they?"

"They _were_ in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. In a high-security vault in Palpatine's private residence. But Brie told me on passing that Admiral Isard's contingent, who hold Coruscant, had already tried to access his vaults. They were looking for Command Codes, not holocrons, but chances are they would have triggered the protective protocols to the holocron vault too, meaning that the holocrons may have been removed."

"So if this protocol was triggered that'd be in our favor, right?"

"I said they'd be moved—I don't know where."

"He tells you everything."

"Not that. With the holocrons I'd be…" The kid paused, part out of a clear and sudden reluctance to speak, part studying the concept of why. "I'd be untouchable. I was given access to a few when I was younger, opened them, learned some of the texts… But the last one I opened, I got the feeling he didn't think I should have been able to. He never let me near them after that."

Again Han watched the kid zone out as he walked, thoughts overtaking all else…then he seemed to come back to himself with a brief shake of his head, blinking quickly. "But no, I don't know where they are. If I had to make an educated guess, I'd say that they're either on Byss or Csilla."

"Never heard of either of 'em," Han said, as they entered the vast, bustling hangar. "No wait, I've heard of Byss, it was on some intel list. It's in the Deep Core, right? Where's…what's the other?"

"Csilla." Luke had lowered his voice a fraction in the crowd, glancing about. "It's pretty much as far out in the opposite direction as you can realistically go."

"So which is more likely?"

"I don't know. It may depend on who reached them first, how they were smuggled out of the palace, who Palpatine trusted the most, immediately before his death... But given that he doesn't seem too concerned with retrieving them and given that Byss is presently within what's theoretically enemy territory, then my best bet is that they didn't go there. If he didn't think they were secure, he'd be working to retrieve them. Then again, the only person capable of opening them all is me—or Brie; she may be able to open some. As long as he keeps us close, where the holocrons are may be less of an issue, so long as he believes he can retrieve them in the long run."

"And if you did get hold of these holocron things…?"

Luke let out a small laugh. "If he was still alive and he found out that I'd even tried to get near the holocrons, let alone access them…he'd kill me."

"So you can't go after them until he's dead."

"But he can't die."

"We brought him down once, maybe we can do it again."

"It was…" Luke shook his head. "I've told you, it was a one in a million run of coincidences. Vader was mutinous, I was out of action, Palpatine was where he shouldn't have been, the Rebels had unprecedented intel, there was a pre-existing Rebel strike in place—it was the perfect storm, Han. You won't get it again."

"If we did…would you help us?"

"To bring down Palpatine?" Luke stopped dead in the center of the hangar to stare, and Han knew that the directness of his question had derailed the kid from that safe line between theoretical and very, very real. Too real. Kid shook his head. "No. No, I won't. This was just…I needed to get my thoughts—"

"Okay," Han said quickly. "That's okay, we can—"

"No, it's not! How am I supposed to let you…" He paused to rub his hands through his short-shorn hair, frustration rising even as his voice quietened. "How am I supposed to let you wander round here, talk to Palpatine—Palpatine!—and just _assume_ you're going to keep on getting away with it? How long do you think you're gonna last, when that kind of thought's in the back of your head?!"

"I'm still here."

"Han…you're still here because Palpatine's playing some kind of long game that neither of us know the rules to, yet. And by the time we do, it'll be too late."

"Oh I know exactly the game he's playing. It's called locking your advocate down so he'll do as he's told. You think that's nothing, you think it's just some sideline to the bigger plan…but without an advocate he's stretched too thin and he knows it."

"That's not his plan."

"It's not his bigger plan, no. But its somethin' that has to be— _has to be_ —locked down before he can move forward… isn't it?" Han sighed as Luke glanced down, scowling. "You don't like things hanging on your shoulders, turnin' on your decision, I know that. But ignoring them isn't gonna make 'em go away. Trust me on that one. Neither is this tryin' to..to walk the midline. And you've already tried backing away yourself—hell, you got all the way out to Rim, for all the difference it made. And how did that work out for y—"

Han was forced to break off as the pilot ducked down the ramp of their waiting shuttle, making a neat salute to Luke. "Sir, your shuttle is prepped. We have clearance when you're ready?"

"Give us a minute," Han said quickly, leaving the pilot to hesitate, unsure whether to take the command or not when Han wasn't the senior officer. Luke remained still though, eyes on the deck, and the pilot nodded briefly and retreated.

Han sighed, giving the pilot time to get out of earshot, aware that this wasn't the place. But the kid had never before seemed so willing to talk on this.

"Y'know…a long time ago, when Leia first asked me about persuading you to join the Alliance, I said it was complicated," he murmured. "But you know Leia—she cuts through all that. She said it was very simple, that all we needed to do was remove the complication…and that complication was Palpatine. She said even if we got you out, you'd always go back—not to the Empire, but to Palpatine. Because he'd spent a lifetime grindin' that into you, no matter what. She was right." He shrugged, head shaking slightly because this was it; this was where they'd all gone wrong last time—he knew that, now. "Look at us, look at where we are again; she was exactly right. But there was one thing we were both wrong about, me an' her; we thought we could do it for you…and we can't. Only you can do it."

That was the problem, here. Only the kid could extricate himself from this, only he could save himself. Trouble was, in every single act he made it clear that the one person he truly didn't give a damn about, was himself. His entire life he'd been pushed down and held back and told he had zero worth. In his mind…what was there to save?

Luke's eyes were down, shoulders slumping slightly as the weight of all that Han had said settled there.

Now, speaking it out loud, Han felt it weigh heavy too; the Rebellion couldn't do this—they'd given it their best shot, but they couldn't bring down a Sith. Once he'd been gone—once it had been a fair fight—they'd dismantled his Empire pretty systematically…up till now, of course.

He laughed cynically. "Turns out you need fire to fight fire."

Luke scowled, pensive words barely audible above the shuttle's engines. "Fire in the forest."

"…What?"

Kid looked to Han with haunted eyes. "Fire in the Forest—that's what Palpatine said Sith are; that they burn everything around them."

"Fire in the forest's a good thing," Han tried. "It renews. Resets. Let's everything start afresh."

"But it destroys everything to do it."

Han stared, trying to figure the kid's mind. "What are you tryin' to protect, Luke?" Even as he asked, he knew the answer. "Us? Me an' Leia? Luke—"

"I have to do something," Luke said quickly, derailing the conversation. "Go back over to the _Executor_ in the shuttle, cover for me."

Han blinked as the kid took a step away from the shuttle ramp, forcing his mind to change gear. "Wait—hold it right there. Do I need to remind you how often you've avoided taking return shuttles to the ship you're _supposed_ to be on, and left me to cover for you? I gotta say, historically, it never ends well."

Kid was still backstepping. "Well at least you've had some practice."

He turned and strode away without giving Han a chance to retort, moving quickly across the busy hangar, seeking to get lost in the daily routine. Small and slight, Han had lost him by the time he'd reached the entrance to the main station beyond.

Cursing under his breath, Han climbed onto the shuttle and shouted for the pilot to take off, omitting to mention that they'd lost half their passengers.

.

.

.


	28. Chapter 28

.

.

 **CHAPTER 28**

.

.

.

"General Antilles."

Luke glanced back, unfamiliar with the voice and aware that he'd be expected to transfer from the Death Star back to the _Executor_ after his meeting with Palpatine—which he hadn't done. A man in a senior officer's uniform strode quickly to catch up, glancing covertly about him as he did so.

Recognizing the _Executor's_ Captain and in no mood for chat, Luke set forward down the Death Star's corridor without waiting, giving only the briefest acknowledgment. "Admiral Griff."

"I've been hoping to talk with you since you arrived back. I left a message on your private comm line onboard the _Executor_." He'd caught up and was matching Luke's fast pace, apparently unwilling to take the hint.

Luke tried a less subtle one. "Yeah, I don't check those."

"But you have an adjutant?"

"He doesn't check them either." Luke broke pace just slightly. "In fact, I'm not that sure what he actually does all day."

Griff paused, clearly unsure what to make of what everyone already knew could be a difficult officer to begin with. To his credit, he stuck with it.

"Well… I..had wanted to ensure that you..were settling in to your new quarters onboard the _Executor_?"

Luke was getting close to the central hub, where he was intending to try to get off the radar and into the Ubiqtorate HQ without being tracked. It was easy enough to abandon his ID cylinders somewhere for the brief time he needed to get in and out anonymously… less so when you had an Admiral matching your every step. So he stopped.

"The quarters are fine. If you'll excuse me."

He waited, staring expectantly at Griff… who hesitated, fairly blasting out nerves at this range. "I…also wanted to speak with you about the Emperor."

Luke ground his jaw. "Go on."

"His return has been…challenging, don't you feel, General?"

"You could call it that."

"The previous year has been most enlightening, in view of it. I find that to be an opinion that is mirrored by many officers at higher levels."

"You haven't said what that opinion is."

Griff glanced again to the side. "One must be very careful to whom one voices personal opinions, especially those which…depart from the norm."

"You just said that your opinion was shared by other officers."

"Indeed it is. By many, in fact. Particularly the highest levels of the Ubiqtorate," he added, glancing to Luke's black uniform.

He was repeating himself, Luke noted, this entire conversation holding a pre-practiced ring to it. The taut nerves in the man's tense face and voice, coupled with his fixed smile and constantly roving eyes, gave Luke a good indication where this was heading. Unfortunately Luke wanted to be heading elsewhere, so…

He'd almost made to walk away then, abruptly realizing an opportunity in Griff, instead set forward for the main hub and its grouped turbolifts at a slower pace. "Go on?"

Given permission, Griff pushed forward, matching Luke's step. "It has been suggested by those same officers that, based on your actions since the Emperor's…return, you might…share their views. Or at the very least be interested in discussing this further. We meet occasionally to discuss…hypothetical situations which may develop, in a forthright and non-judgmental atmosphere. I can assure you that anything you say will be treated in the strictest confidence."

Luke nodded slowly, coming to a stop to the far end of the regimented row of turbolift doors and triggering a general call in doing so. Odds had to be with him, here…

The second set of doors in the row of nine pipped as it opened behind Griff, and Luke gestured with a tilt of his head. Griff obligingly glanced behind him before turning to the open door, allowing Luke to slide the ID cylinders from his outer breast pockets and drop his hand casually back to his side, unseen. The ID cylinders broadcast the wearer's entitlement to enter a variety of high security areas onboard any military vessel, but they also logged the wearer's ID as he entered and left—something Luke could do without, right now. Trouble was, without them, he wouldn't have the clearance he needed to gain access to the Ubiqtorate HQ.

Fortunately, Admiral Griff's ID cylinders could do that for him. And Griff wouldn't exactly be happy to own up to that fact if cross-questioned later, should Luke's suspicions on where this conversation was heading were correct. A nice, neat little solution, all wrapped up and handed to him…all he had to do was tease it out.

Whilst Griff was still turning about to face him, Luke released his own palmed ID cylinders from his open hand—then caught them with the Force without looking, setting them gently on the ridged deck plate right against the outside of the turbolift wall, unseen by Griff. In the complexity of the non-slip deck ridges and with the light aimed at the doors, they were all but lost to view.

Stepping into the turbolift without even having paused, he keyed for the Ubiqtorate level before turning back to Griff, leaving the man none the wiser. Griff had an agenda, and having psyched himself up to do this, he wouldn't want to be derailed.

So Luke smiled tightly, giving him the floor. "Interesting… though I'm still not entirely sure what these safely hypothetical opinions actually are."

Griff licked his lips, leaning a fraction closer, though they were alone in the turbolift. "There are many who…find that Palpatine's return has underlined how constricted our positions had become in the later years of the Empire. How untenable. If anyone needed proof of that, then they need simply look to what happened after the Emperor's demise."

"I would have thought that should have been your moment to shine." He didn't want to make it too easy for the Admiral, which would more than likely make the man realize that he was being humored, and so shorten the conversation. "Yet you failed to do so."

"Because any procedures which might have enabled a smooth transition of power were already fatally flawed," Griff said firmly. "Purposely so. But that is…correctable."

It was an old speech. One Luke had heard many times, from many lips. Nothing ever came of it, because not one of those who gave it were ever willing to put their head above the parapet and take a risk. It was perhaps the one thing that he admired about the Rebellion; they backed up their words with actions in a way that no high-ranking Moff or power-hungry politician seemed willing to.

He nodded slowly, eyes on the descending level indicator. "Correctable how?"

"There are, of course, several possibilities. One which might be considered is that a new direction for leadership—one which supports a more logical distribution of power—is what is required to carry the Empire forward."

Tired with beating about the bush, Luke cut to the chase. "And you feel that the existing _leadership_ is incapable of that change?"

The turbolift pipped, its rapid deceleration making both men move slightly to catch their weight. The doors opened to a short corridor, at the end of which was a set of larger security doors. Luke immediately glanced up, eyes travelling the hallway at ceiling height, barely listening to Griff.

"I'm simply posing a theoretical argument, General Antilles," Griff said with feigned calm. "However you may well be right; there is a general notion that new leadership could more reliably take the new Empire in an advantageous direction. We now have a sizeable fleet and a cache of high-grade, influential officers—"

The light which indicated active status on the security lens doused, un-noticed, as Luke walked forward. "All be it irresolute."

Griff twitched at that, keeping pace with Luke as they reached the doors, which triggered open in response to Griff's ID cylinders. " _Pragmatic_ may be a better portrayal, I feel."

"Of course."

The doors slid closed behind them, and they were inside the Ubiqtorate's HQ. Luke glanced about, seeking to orient himself as Griff continued speaking, unaware that he had become surplus to requirements.

"A leader who has less…myopic interests could take such a fleet a long way."

Luke glanced to the man who had abruptly changed from invaluable to a nuisance. "So could Palpatine."

"I don't deny that," Griff allowed. "I'm simply hypothesizing that a more balanced approach would achieve advantageous results for a wider—"

"Advantageous to who, exactly?"

Griff straightened slightly at the change in Luke's tone. "Please don't misunderstand, General. We're working to the ultimate advantage of the Empire, of course."

"Really? I find myself unconvinced of that."

A brief, tense smile touched Griff's lips. "We would very much like the opportunity to persuade you."

He could have pursued it further—coaxed out a little more information before he cut the man off entirely—but a group of Moffs having ambitious tendencies was hardly news. In fact it was par for the course; they wouldn't be Moffs if they didn't. The fact that Admiral Griff harbored the same was no particular surprise, either; he would likely have made Moff by now, had the Emperor whom he was presently trying to depose—or more accurately, trying to persuade Luke to depose—not inconveniently died…and even more inconveniently, returned.

The fact that they were organized enough to go recruiting was mildly unusual, but now that he was inside the Ubiqtorate HQ Luke had an agenda of his own, so he glanced away.

"That _was_ your opportunity." He turned on his heel and set off down the main corridor, searching out a supply hub.

"General," Griff took a brief step forward then halted, unsure what to say, the nerves in his voice and rolling out into the Force rendering him abruptly awkward and anxious.

Luke turned back with a clipped sigh, knowing exactly what Griff was trying so hard to find the words for.

"The Emperor has more significant concerns than to be interested in my taking the grumblings of his senior officers to him on a daily basis, Admiral Griff. You claim to be acting in the interests of the Empire—then prove it. I'll be watching."

Griff straightened with a brief click of his heels in salute, leaving Luke to wonder if he'd taken that last as an opportunity rather than a threat. But needing to get rid of the Admiral, he simply turned away down the long corridor, relieved at Griff's agitated sense in the Force receding with every step.

.

 _Highest levels of the Ubiqtorate_ , Griff had said. Quite suddenly, Luke broke pace; did he mean Shira?

It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility. With the Rebellion gaining ground and Palpatine's position weakened by the fact that he was being forced to reassert his right to rule, it wasn't hard to recognize the potential to overthrow him. Palpatine himself didn't trust Shira—that was why he kept her so close.

But to desire power was one thing…to actively pursue it was another entirely. Shira may have maneuvered herself into a position of very visible authority as head of the Ubiqtorate, but to date her modus operandi was always to work through another, to get what she wanted. First Kessler then, briefly, she'd tried Luke—then Palpatine had reappeared, and Shira had immediately transferred all efforts there.

Reaching the door to a field equipment store, Luke stepped quickly inside, thoughts still turning.

No; she wouldn't make an outright bid for power; she wouldn't take that risk. His head tilted to the side, playing out the logic; but if she was stirring up the Moffs behind Palpatine's back, she might well have _them_ try to recruit the one person she knew had abilities equal to Palpatine's.

Abilities equal to Palpatine's…it was the first time he'd thought that so casually, and only then because his thoughts had been centered on the greater picture. For a brief second, he let the notion play out to reckless, dangerous possibilities…

Then blinked, shaking his head a fraction. _Concentrate on what you're doing. Keep your thoughts and attention in the moment._ Basic, basic training—things pummeled into him as a child, at the very same time that his Master had sought to instill the kind of loyalty that never broke, whatever the test.

" _Would you die for me?"  
"I'd die for you…on your command."  
"There, child—_there _is your true worth."_

And he would. Even now, he _still_ would. But he was no longer a child, and the galaxy had complicated exponentially in the interim years, rendering his commitment less reflexive, less deferential, less….

Uncomfortable, Luke turned his thoughts back to Shira; she wasn't a threat—nothing was, whilst the clones still existed. How did you fight immortality?

They'd be at Rhen Var within days, and the clones would be retrieved to be secreted away once more. Probably neither Luke, nor certainly Shira, would be told where.

So what was he doing here, now? He glanced about the equipment store, knowing exactly what he had intended. Was he any different from Shira, in using those around him? They'd both had the same teacher, he supposed. Perhaps he didn't do it as coldly, preferring to engineer a situation in which those around him worked to their own free will—as long as that free will dovetailed with Luke's own unspoken requirements.

Stopping between shelves he picked out a box and opened it, pulling out the comlink within, thoughts on Han. For a second he hesitated…then slid the small comlink into a pocket beside his own, letting his thoughts slip back to safer issues… Speaking of Han and Palpatine, what had really been going on when he'd gone to Han's quarters? What test? What advantage was Palpatine gaining for himself, by allowing Han to remain? He'd already indicated that he knew Han's loyalties…yet had also let it pass, unchecked. So what was going on? Why was Han still here?

Luke had many times in the past watched as his Master gave someone whom he knew wasn't loyal, free access about the palace on Coruscant, to keep their guard down whilst he controlled them. Luke himself had done the same, giving Ashtor free rein as one of his own adjutants on Coruscant despite knowing the man was loyal to Vader, in order to feed Vader only the information Luke chose. Leaving a known mole free was an old intel trick, and something that Sith had a natural propensity for, given their abilities to read minds and their willingness to end the game decisively, when they felt the it had played to its conclusion. So the question here was…what was the game?

Because something _was_ playing out, here; he could practically feel it.

He was also aware of another layer of potential complication, if Mara returned and identified Han. If she did so privately to Palpatine, then whatever strategy he was playing to could easily remain intact. But if she did so publicly, then Palpatine would be forced to act. A pretty big consideration, and another reason why her continued absence protected not just Mara herself, but Han too… Luke just didn't want it to be at Leia's cost.

Palpatine had been right in his suspicion that Luke's recovery of the ISD _Relentless_ from the Rebel fleet had been at least in part to split Mara from Leia. The Destroyer's old crew would have been broken down and reassigned by now, and even if it was her mission, it would take time for Mara to re-attach herself to Leia. Plus if she did end up on the same ship as Leia, Luke would have a clear indicator that getting close to his sister, and not onto a specific ship, was the mission that Mara had actually been charged with by Palpatine—important intel that he could gain without once showing his own hand, in terms of being forced to ask Palpatine directly.

He sighed, aware of his own ulterior motives; that he was seeking not only to protect Leia, but also Mara. Still. Despite everything she'd done, prying him away from Leia in the most damaging way possible to send him limping back to Palpatine, licking his own wounds.

He frowned at that, wondering if he was simply repeating the only lasting relationship that he'd ever known—that with Palpatine—in that he'd willingly forgive Mara anything. Even though he _knew_ that this could never work.

A dark, aching sting pierced his chest and flushed through him as he remembered the premonition whenever they kissed, and Shira's words whispered inside his head, shrouded in hushed portent. _"She'll break your heart—she will, because you'll break hers."_

Had he done that, in refusing to return here with her? Was that why she'd framed him? Or was the real blow yet to come? Because the fact was that Shira's words hadn't yet come full-force; Mara hadn't broken his heart.

How could she have, if he still loved her?

A brief, tight smile twitched his lips: divine punishment, for his having rushed headlong into the all-consuming affair? How many times had Palpatine told him that he acted too rashly. That he couldn't help but destroy anything which he tried to hold close, because it was all he knew. It was all any Sith knew.

Maybe it was better for him to be alone…maybe he was _meant_ to be.

Resolute, he slipped from the equipment store without turning a single head.

.

.

.

.

.

Stood in his quarters onboard the _Executor_ , Han was staring out at the immense umbra which held unnaturally still across the surface of the new Death Star when the door to his quarters opened behind him, letting a wide shaft of bright light from the corridor beyond reflect across the viewpane, to obscure the spectacle entirely.

Luke entered without knocking, as ever.

Han turned. "Well you made it back in one piece, then. That's new."

"Why is that new? I always turn up. It's what I've done in the interim that causes the problems."

"Speakin' of which, have you been making new friends over on the Death Star?"

Luke frowned in question, and Han tilted his head a fraction, voice quiet. "Can we talk in here?"

"Right now, yes."

"Some officer—uuh, Griff, I think—commed and left a frequency for you to contact him on, _should you wish to talk further_. Didn't say what about."

"Oh."

"So…you're not gonna say, either?"

"I was barely listening, to tell the truth."

"Copishit, you always listen. What'd he want? You know the Moffs around here are antsy. Somethin's ticking over."

"They're looking for someone who'll light the fuse for them, so they can all back off and point the finger elsewhere when it goes spectacularly wrong. Here."

The kid threw something small and palm-size across the room's metal-topped table, where it clattered noisily. Han reached out, forced to snatch at the comlink before it cleared the table entirely.

"I already got one of these."

"Not like that one. It's untraceable. I just _requisitioned_ it from the Ubiqtorate store. Use it three times, no more. And not from anywhere near our quarters. First time they'll register the aberrant signal. Second time they'll cross reference it and see it's been used before. Third time they'll have enough data to break into the bandwidth and start unscrambling it. Then you need to destroy it—properly; break the chip to pieces or burn it, then put what's left out an airlock. Let me know and I'll get you another."

"I though they could slice into their own bandwidths pretty much as soon as any're transmitting?"

"Not that one. It's special issue."

Han turned it over in his hands. "Looks pretty standard to me."

"Yeah, it's what we like to call subterfuge. You should try it sometime."

"So what's it for?"

"You."

"To do what?" Han pushed, knowing.

Luke sat to the opposite side of Han's standard-issue desk, opening the drawer there to pull out a few sheets of flimsy without looking up, his tone that of carefully casual nonchalance. "I already have ninety-nine percent of the galaxy hacked off at me for one reason or another. I don't want to add Leia to that, when I didn't even ask you to come with me in the first place. Now you can tell her that."

"I think she'll've worked it out," Han said with confidence. "I also think that if she was gonna be pissed at you for something, it might be over the whole _Kathol's Pride_ thing."

"Tell her it was the _Relentless_ long before it was the _Kathol's Pride_." He unfastened the top of his black uniform jacket as he spoke, pulling a stylus from his inside pocket. "Tell her that I would've been happy to leave in the _Falcon_ if she'd let me."

"Actually, that was my fault."

"Ah." Luke nodded, resting the nib of the stylus on the flimsy without yet making a mark. "Might not want to tell her that."

"Anything else you want me to tell her?" They both knew what he was talking about; it could hardly be missed, taking up most of the space outside of the viewport and dwarfing even the gargantuan shipyards about it.

Luke shrugged, never one to make anything easy. "Tell her what you want."

Han tipped his head, far too used to the kid's sideways avoidances and abdications of responsibility, by now. "Why don't I tell her what _you_ want?"

Kid didn't look up, eyes on the sketch that was fast appearing beneath his stylus. "Because you don't know what I want."

"No, _you_ don't know what you want. I know precisely what you want me to do." As he spoke, Han leaned forward to tap with the tip of the comlink against the sheet of flimsy that Luke was sketching on. Rendered in scratched, angled lines which defined only shadows, the fast sketch depicted the semi-skeletal form of the near-finished Death Star, which hung like doom itself in the viewport behind him. "You always look to achieve what you want by proxy. No involvement. Or is it just that you get bored when you can do it all yourself, and like a challenge?"

Luke still didn't lift his gaze, unoffended at Han's calling him out. "Well I had a good teacher—one of the best."

"Yeah, but he charged a hell of a price for the lessons."

Kid shrugged. "Sometimes I wonder if I got off lightly."

"No. You didn't. You almost saw that, for a while…but now—here—you're getting in too deep again to see what it's cost you."

Finally the kid lifted his head, the edge of a challenge in his voice. "You think you know what it cost me?"

"No. I got some idea…but no. I do know that you want me to tell Leia about the Death Star, because you want her to know, but this way's easier for you because you're not directly involved, right? No conflict of conscience. This is how you get round it," Han said with a brief shrug.

Luke's fingers spread over the sheet of flimsy then closed to a fist, crumpling it to nothing. "Don't tell her if you don't want. I don't care."

Han watched the kid in silence for a while as he sat idly sketching on a new sheet. It was a young woman, drawn in few lines, with sharp eyes and delicate features, and long hair that fell in loose locks about her shoulders.

He tilted his head, feeling like he knew her, and trying to figure out the drawing from upside-down. "Can I ask you a—"

"No."

"Why do you draw?"

Luke glanced up. Normally, it would have been through the loose bangs of his unruly fringe, but his short-cropped hair lent the wary look new weight.

"I just do. Lots of people do."

"No, filling a sketch pad every now and again is, _I just do_. What you _just do_ is…" Han trailed off.

"Obsessive…psychotic?"

"Actually I was gonna go with a little weird, but…yeah, that too."

Kid shrugged, unoffended. Scrawling hard lines through the sketch he started again, eyes narrowing just slightly in concentration.

Han recognized the new sketch from a hundred older renditions; another woman, her face more oval this time, lips rounder, dark hair pulled up into a braided halo.

"My mother, Breha Organa, had…just before…before Coruscant, she'd given me a flat metal box, and in it was—well," he shrugged, unusually inarticulate. "She used to like it when I drew for her. Just, you know, kid's drawings. Stupid stuff. But she kept them all…" He broke off with a breathy laugh. "Maybe she just encouraged me because it kept me quiet, I don't know. But just before we set off for Coruscant she gave me a box, and it had a full set of brush-nibbed waterpens in it—artist's ones. I'd only ever used pencils before that, just basic pencils. But she gave this set, and I felt so…proud, so… She said…she said I had to use them every day. Keep drawing, for her."

The stylus in his hand had ceased its scratching movement and strayed in a long, barely arched line toward the edge of the sheet of flimsy, to begin again as his thoughts changed gear. First one round eye, wide with fear, then the other—the second straying off the edge of the flimsy and onto the table beneath in fast, deeply-scratched lines, the compulsive scribble becoming ever heavier. Han glanced down, eyes drawn by the movement, and recognized the same sketch that always eventually surfaced, wherever Luke drew; Breha Organa, this time with her eyes wide with fear, seconds before her death. A memory etched deeply into an eleven year old boy's psyche with intentional, malicious brutality by Palpatine, in an effort to gain control.

Gently he reached out and took hold of the stylus, stilling it, though the kid wouldn't relinquish it, eyes remaining down as he spoke.

"She said, Promise me you'll always draw. I remember her saying that; Promise me you'll always do this, for me. She had such faith…faith in me."

"You think you let her down."

He looked up. "Don't you?"

"No." Han said it softly; immediately.

Luke glanced down to the wide eyes. "Palpatine said…when they—when he realized that I hadn't wanted them to die, that I'd wanted to…to stop him, to save them—he said…I remember exactly the contempt in his voice as he said, 'How could you fail them so completely, when all you had to do was speak a name? And me—how could you fail me so utterly, as to even consider doing so?'."

Obsessively drawn and redrawn a thousand times, Han knew that moment, that memory, had burned and blistered again and again, part with Luke's own guilt and part at Palpatine's divisive taunts. Kid just kept on living that moment, scribbled and gouged out again and again…but could never quite erase it, no matter how he tried.

"You know," Luke said quietly, "I was always waiting for my eyes to change."

Han blinked, unsure where the kid's erratic mind was leaping this time. "What?"

"Palpatine…he always derided the fact that no matter what I did my eyes never changed, as a Sith's do."

Memories flashed to Han's mind unbidden, of the amount of times that the old man had grabbed at Luke's chin and hauled him in, ochre yellow eyes studying Luke's blue ones;  
 _'Poor, pitiful blue eyed boy',  
'Common little blue-eyed boy'…_

"Why would you even want his approval?"

"No—no, it wasn't that at all," Luke said distantly. "My mother—the day Palpatine came for me…" His hand stilled a moment, then moved to sketch a small figure, rendering floor-length, draping robes with fast, fluid lines. "She was wearing a long gown, delicate brushed silk, and I remember—" The stylus hung loose between his fingers as he opened his hand, as if reaching for something. "I remember stretching out as he pulled me away, and the very tips of my fingers brushed against it, soft and warm. Pale blue, like a summer sky. And every time I look in a mirror, I see that same pale blue…and I hate it. I hate myse—"

"None of it was your fault," Han said softly.

"You said not long ago that I need to be able to look at myself in a mirror… but every single time I do, I see that same vivid flash of color. Powder blue atomizing into a haze of deep scarlet." The words were spoken quietly, wracked with private regrets as Luke's eyes remained on the sketches. "I didn't act." He said the last flatly, as if it had been repeated a thousand times over in his own head. "I froze, when I should have acted."

"You were a kid."

Desolate blue eyes met Han's. "You always say I'm impulsive, and it's because…because I won't ever do that again. I won't ever freeze up. I won't."

"I get that now—I do."

"But…when I do act…I make the wrong choice. I always do."

"No you don't."

"…I made the wrong choice bringing you here."

"You didn't bring me. It was my decision, to come. And you don't always make the wrong choice."

"Really." An irreverent, lopsided smile crept across Luke's face. "So breaking out of the _Pride's_ detention center, locking out the Bridge and stealing the entire Star Destroyer was the _right_ thing, then?"

"Well, okay, that maybe wasn't the best option, given the circumstances. But hey…" Han paused, searching for the smallest mote of good he could pull out of that one.

Luke's head tilted further in recognition, the ghost of a smile holding on his lips. "Go on?"

"Wait, give me a minute…"

He was saved by the comlink in Luke's chest pocket, which chimed quietly for attention. Frowning, Luke pulled it free to read the small ID. Then he scowled, and replaced it without answering.

Han shook his head slowly. "Well it's good to know some things haven't changed."

"What?"

"You never pick up your damn comms, you know that?"

"I answer you."

"That is _not_ true," Han said categorically.

"… Sometimes."

"Who was it?"

"Shira Brie."

"That the Ubiqtorate boss? What'd she do to hack you off anyway?"

Kid raised an eyebrow without looking up, attention on the flimsy before him again, as he made a small, fast sketch of the redhead, voice distant and dry. "Oh, where to begin…."

"When have you even had time to make new enemies?"

"This one pre-dates our glorious return here."

"You two got a history?"

"You could say that."

Han paused for a few moments, studying the kid. "You know, I can have a long conversation with you on a pretty damn specific subject, throughout which you manage to answer every time without actually saying anything."

"I know. I'm wondering when you're gonna finally take the hint."

Han reached forward, tapping the table with his fingertips as the thought that had been bugging him since he'd first met Brie finally coalesced. "Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute…aversion to redheads, right?"

The stylus Luke held ceased its scratching for brief seconds…which for the kid was tantamount to a full-blown reaction, Han knew. He straightened, knowing he was onto something. "An aversion to redheads, that's what you said back on the _Pride_ ," Han crowed. "We were fixin' that damn freighter of yours, and you were looking for the Alliance 'tech whose tools you'd borrowed. I asked you if you liked her, and you said you had an aversion to redheads. Remember?"

"No."

"I do," Han nodded, practically crowing. "So, what, is the original source of that aversion right here on our doorstep?"

"Not even close," the kid replied smoothly. "Brie's just trouble. Wholesale, widespread, and dangerously ambitious. Keep an eye on her—she's heading places, any way she can."

"Do I detect the sour tones of a jilted ex? Wait—didn't you say somethin' about some Imperial you hooked up with after Rishi?"

" _Hooked up_ with?" The kid glared, offended, then cut himself off before whatever rebuke was on the tip of his tongue came out. Instead, he shook his head. "I'm serious. Brie'll be a major player inside of—in fact, scratch that; she's a major player already. You just don't know about her yet."

Han narrowed his eyes, aware that the kid was actually being serious, here. Another memory from the past floated to the surface; on Coruscant, when Han was in contact with Leia but long before he'd defected to the Alliance. The kid had told him to pass a warning on to Leia; …' _Tell her, beware of redheads'_ , he'd said.

"So…who is she?"

"Shira Elan Colla Brie. Trained by Va—by my…my father. Picked up his ambitious streak, in the process."

"Ambitious how?"

"Well she offered me shared leadership of the Empire, if I'd help her put it back together," Luke said casually without looking up, sketching the woman's blunt bob in strong strokes. "That was before Palpatine returned, of course. Now she's working hard to set up the same deal with Palpatine…though as you can imagine, that's a hard sell. Palpatine doesn't share power."

"She's head of the Ubiqtorate."

"To keep her in direct competition with me. To keep us at each other's throats."

Han tilted his head. "Yeah that did _not_ look like hostility to me."

"We have a healthy respect for each-other's abilities…useful and otherwise."

Han controlled the twitch of his lip because that, right there, was someone talking about an ex. Still, there wasn't really much point in holding back a grin when the person opposite you could read minds. Kid glanced at him, knowingly, voice dismissive.

"I'll remind you again that she once injected me with strychnine…repeatedly. Right after shooting me. Full-stun, close-range. To the head."

Han stared for a few moments, but since Luke was obviously still okay, his concern didn't last. "Nah, I gotta go with the odds here. You probably did something to deserve it, right?"

"Thanks."

"Think back…what was the very last thing you said to her before she shot you?"

Luke raised an eyebrow. "I said _Come on, then_."

"There ya go." Han stood, tugging at his restrictive uniform's stand collar. "Might wanna go with somethin' a little less confrontational next time." At another sideways glance from Luke, he shrugged. "Hey, I know you. I know just how that _Come on, then_ went. I'm gonna go see if I can contact Leia."

"Don't do it from near the habitation levels."

"What am I, an amateur?" he paused at the door. "How come we can talk in here?"

"You think I'd leave active listening devices in your quarters? Go to Cartography—the holo-projection room underneath the main…what?"

Luke asked the last because Han had felt a brief rush of guilt at the memory of sitting in that exact chamber on some other Star Destroyer and offering for the first time to help Leia, in exchange for Luke's safety. Hadn't worked out too well that time…but he knew now where he'd gone wrong. He was still working on how to correct that.

And speaking of correcting missteps… "Nothin," Han dismissed the kid's question and moved quickly on, holding up the comlink. "Thanks for this. I'll tell Leia you said hello."

"I didn't."

"Well then I'll tell her you gave me the comlink…and what you said about her and me when I asked—that you approved."

"I don't remember saying that. I remember saying I had no specific objection, and that you were particularly immature—"

"Which was why I got on with you," Han interjected.

"—but I don't think that constitutes approval."

Han paused, suddenly serious. "Do you?"

Luke turned his attention back to the sheet of flimsy, voice distant. "If it really matters that much—which I don't think it does—you can safely assume that when it comes to my sister, anything short of a saber between the eyes can be constituted as general tolerance."

"You talkin' her lightsaber or yours?"

"Either, really. If she can refrain, then I'm sure I can. To a point."

"So if—"

"You're at the point, now. Seriously."

Grinning, Han took the last step out into the hallway and let the door close. Pocketing the stolen comlink, he headed for Stellar Cartography.

.

.

Walking to Cartography, Han remembered Palpatine's inference earlier, about Luke having an affair with some high-ranking imperial officer. If the kid _had_ had an affair with this Brie woman, then it was likely in Palpatine's absence, and given the Old Man's pathological need for total loyalty of all those around him, it was clearly terminated on Palpatine's command, with his return…

Han tipped his head to no-one in particular as he walked; that made sense. As did why Luke would now reject her entirely in front of Palpatine—and even Han.

His thoughts went back to that last, brief altercation between Palpatine and the kid on the Death Star, which had stopped Luke in his tracks as he was leaving…because that was different to anything Han had seen before. That was Luke actually, genuinely hacked off—at Palpatine.

Not at this imagined ideal of an Emperor who he'd held as some kinda paradigm for so long, but just…at a man who was pushing him to the very edge of what he was willing to take in the name of allegiance and respect.

Was this enforced break part of that? Had Palpatine finally crossed the line, from asking everything of the kid professionally, to asking the same of him _personally?_ Because from where Han had stood, it seemed like the comment that had driven Luke to that edge had been Palpatine's claim of having had to rescue the kid from some personal affair.

Was that what had prompted the enlightening conversation on their return to the hangar? 'Cos Luke had never spoken like that before—ever. Having finally had a brief taste of freedom, was he less willing to give it up than Palpatine had hoped…even with the lure of potential immortality dangled before him?

Yeah, Luke had backed down when Han had pushed him too far, trying to get him to commit to actually helping the Rebels bring Palpatine down…but even that—even that was _something_. It was autonomous thought rather than the usual indifferent, uninvolved drift. Wasn't the answer Han wanted to hear, but it was Luke, feeling out his own boundaries.

"Well hell's teeth," Han murmured quietly, feeling a lopsided half-grin lift his lips.

He glanced to the comlink in his hand, given to him by Luke…then again, kid had neatly sidestepped any decision to inform the Alliance about the Death Star, instead leaving it to Han to make that decision for him, as he did with so much in his life. So as much as Luke was chomping at the bit from constant restrictions, he wouldn't go directly against Palpatine. And Han didn't for a moment think it was out of fear for his own safety; to say the kid had never even vaguely taken his own wellbeing into consideration in _any_ decision would be a galaxy-sized understatement.

But if Luke wasn't willing to figure that into the equation—or maybe because of it—Han had to. Palpatine himself had made it perfectly clear in that carefully-engineered private conversation last night that it was Luke who'd be held accountable for Han's actions. Then again, he'd always made that clear right from the beginning, on Coruscant—and even then, it had been a pre-established rule to the point that a fifteen year old Luke had nodded shrewdly

 _"He offer you money to walk away? A title, maybe?"  
"Actually it was more of a 'Don't step outta line, or I'll come get your sorry ass.' "  
"Really? 'Cos you don't strike me as the kind of guy who would…oh, wait. It was a 'Don't get the kid to step outta line or I'll come get __his_ _sorry ass,' wasn't it?"_

And Sith knew, the Old Man went out of his way to prove that point. You never saw his hand in it, though—that was the clever thing. It was always some other person's fault, for tryin' to lead the kid astray when they knew damn well what the consequences would be. Han paused for a moment, considering;

Was that what this was? Some kind of long play where Han could be held up as the betrayer, indifferent to dropping Luke in deep trouble, despite knowing that it would be Luke and not he who had to take the punishment.

Nah…he was getting worse than the kid, trying to double-think Palpatine, assuming that he was forever spinning all these scams and cons, looking for conspiracies within conspiracies.…

Wasn't he?

He'd come to a stop amongst the machinery of the immense room-sized holo-projection suite of the cartography chamber above. In here, the power signature bought a little unofficial privacy. Gave a bad line to speak on…but it was a small price to pay.

Trouble was, now… now, Han didn't know whether to tell Leia or not. He knew he wanted to speak to her—to hear her voice. And he knew…he knew he _had_ to tell her—how could he not? But suddenly, it wasn't the cut-and-dried decision it had been this morning.

Now it was messy. It was muddy. Han leaned back against the complex machinery built into the walls, letting is head knock awkwardly against their hard edges as he took to rubbing his temples. Damn the Old Man; he sucked the joy out of everything.

He jabbed in the private comlink frequency that he knew Leia had been running before he'd left, holding his breath. Had it really been just a week? It seemed like three times that, with all that'd happened. He pursed his lips, mouth going dry.

A brief tack, as it connected over multiple relays, the line hissing; "…Hello?"

And he grinned; Han grinned instantly, feeling a weight lift from him at just hearing her voice. "Hey Doll, it's me."

Leia paused, clearly reeling at the unexpected comm—though she still had enough about her to stutter past his name without speaking it. "H—you? You! Where the hell are you?! Are you alright?"

" _Really_ long story. And I'm fine—we both are—I'm here with Trouble." She'd know who he meant.

"With… Wait, take this comm-code:" there was a brief pause whilst the line let out a series of muffled scrapes, as if she was scrabbling around for something. Was she at her desk, Han wondered? Sat at that cluttered desk in her quarters, looking out at that damn stupid chair she always had with the pads from an old T-90 pilot's seat tied to it? "Here, re-comm to Nen-Leth-Wesk-two-seven-thr—"

"It's fine. Wait, it's fine, it's a secure line." He hesitated a second, wondering again whether Palpatine was simply giving him enough rope to hang himself, here. "Actually, no, give me the coded line?"

"Nen-Leth-Wesk-two-seven-three-five-seven. It's a bounce-code."

"Great, hold on I'll comm right back. And hey…you look great."

He heard the grin in her voice. "It's an audio line."

"Yeah, but you always look great."

He hung up, leaving that one dangling whilst he re-commed on what was hopefully an even more secure line. The comlink hadn't even let one pip-set roll before she answered.

"You are such a rake." Her voice was flat and amused and dry and teasing, all at once.

"Yeah, you gotta love that, right?"

"Don't get me started. Where are you?"

The lopsided smile fell from his face. "I'm on a Star Destroyer. In fact, I'm on _the_ Star Destroyer. The Super Star Destroyer _Executor_. We're launching on some mission in a few hours."

"You're onboard? Now?"

He sighed, feeling his mood darken. "That's not even the issue. Guess where I've been today." It wasn't really a question.

Leia's voice dropped an octave. "You saw him—Palpatine's clone?"

"Oh I've seen the Old Man plenty—and actually, he's not an old man any more. He's maybe thirty, thirty-five."

"Can you get an image of him to us somehow?"

"I'm not sure." He realized only now just how much he had to tell her, and how little time he had, if he wanted to keep the line secure. "I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, listen, there's big stuff happening here."

"Wait…okay, I'm recording. Go."

"Okay, uh…" again Han paused, trying to get his thoughts and the facts in order. "Well, we brought the _Relentless_ —the _Kathol's Pride_ —back to Fondor. Luke let me wipe the system of Rebel codes while we were still in hyperspace, but I'm no expert, so…"

"The codes are all flatlined," Leia dismissed. "We did it the first night. Han, the command codes that Luke used—the ones that were hardwired in—are they in any Imperial ship?"

"I dunno," he admitted. "I'll ask. But you know Luke, he might tell me, he might not."

"Is he…how is he?"

"He's… y'know, he's…I don't even know. He says he's stayin' here, but… I dunno." The line remained silent, until eventually Han had to speak. "He gave me this comlink, so I could contact you. Made sure it was safe."

 _Silence_ …..

"Leia, you there?"

"Can you trust him?"

Han shrugged, unseen. "Sure I can."

"I don't mean the comlink."

"I know what you mean. Leia…" He had no idea how to explain it. "Do you trust him?"

"I...do—I want to—but…he's there, not here. He went back there."

"I know. I think…he's..workin' stuff out, you know? He gave me this comlink to…he gave me this to tell you something. Somethin' he wants you to know, but he can't tell you himself."

"What?"

Han shook his head. "There's…they've built another Death Star. Remember the shield system they used at Fondor Shipyards to do the final fit-out of the _Executor_ without it ever being seen? Cracken said that power consumption at the shipyards meant that it might have been reactivated recently. Well it was—and now they're hidin' something a hell of a lot bigger. They must have been building this second one in conjunction with the original, just a few years behind. But this one's immense. All the things they learned building the first, they've used here. It's not complete, but it looks pretty close."

"And Palpatine has control of it, as well as Ghost Fleet?"

"Palpatine _is_ Ghost Fleet. He assembled it, and he's still adding to it…those are the pacts and the mergers we've been seeing. They're not between individual sectors, they're Moffs being pulled back under Palpatine's banner. Right now I think he's pointin' Ghost Fleet at Coruscant, but…I can't believe that'll last. Coruscant'll fold—all the Core Systems will."

"And then he'll come for us," Leia said gravely.

"Not himself. Once he's on Coruscant, you won't lure him out so easy. But I'm pretty sure he'll point the fleet your way. More importantly, so's Luke."

Silence held for a few moments—what could she say, he supposed? But at least he had one little ray of light. "We're launching in a few hours, here—the _Executor_ —and…I _think_ we're travelling over the border into Rebel territory. And I think Palpatine will be with us, when we do."

He voice tightened. "He's coming over the border?"

"I think he might be," Han said gravely. "Some one-off mission, before he turns around and heads for Coruscant."

"Do you know where, exactly?"

"No…no, not yet." Han rolled his eyes at his own lack of foresight. "Luke does—I'll ask him. I don't…I don't know what's goin' on between Palpatine and Luke, either. Luke wanted you to have this information—that's why he gave me the comlink—but…I think I'm being played, here. I think Palpatine's hoping I'll pass information on, just so he can force Luke's hand."

"And you have."

"I couldn't not tell you."

Suddenly he found himself wondering… he'd leaked information that had remained locked down since Palpatine's return, and the only new element in that equation? Han. He'd seen the Death Star, today. _He_ was the most recent change, the most reasonable link, if the facts were found to have been leaked to the Alliance. But Luke had _wanted_ him to do it…right? Or had Han just played perfectly into Palpatine's hands?

"I dunno…maybe Luke right."

"About what?"

"Huh? Oh, he keeps on sayin' not to underestimate Palpatine." He let out a laugh within a long sigh. "Kid's got me jumpin' at shadows too, now."

"What else do you know?"

"Well, I think…I think I might've figured out why Luke walked out on Palpatine. I think it might've been over an officer here, a woman who he met when the Empire picked him up that first time, over Rishi. Luke said they'd got a history, and—just…stuff he said on the way back here, and on the _Kathol's Pride_ —I kinda got the impression that it was an actual, serious _history_ , y'know?"

"Who is she?"

"Uuh…Brie; Shira Brie. Redhead, about Luke's age; heads up the Ubiqtorate. There's something between them, you can tell, but you know Luke; tight-lipped. He keeps on warning that she's trouble, but…I dunno, I think she might have been the reason Luke left Palpatine and came to the Alliance—to protect her."

"Protect her how?"

Han pulled a face, though Leia couldn't see. "I get the feeling the Old Man might've looked to discourage any kinda affair between two of his senior officers—might've threatened her if Luke didn't back off. Sounds like the kind of thing he'd do, I know that. An' Luke…he's not a kid any more. After a whole year of makin' his own way, I get the feeling that did _not_ sit well. Kinda like that's what really dug that rift."

"You think Luke would do that—just walk away from everything he knew, for her?"

"I would, for you." He'd said the words without a second's thought or hesitation… And now, the silence on the other side of the comlink made him think on them. "I would, you know."

"I know Han," she said softly. "You already did. You gave up everything…and I never told you how much that meant to me, did I? I never told you how much you mean to me, because of it."

"I guess…I never told you how much you… I just got my head in the wrong place, you know? I was thinkin' about all the risks and all the maybe's of…of us. I just—somewhere in there, I forgot to say what mattered."

"What matters, Han?"

"That I don't want to waste any more time tryin' to juggle if's and maybe's. We should be together. And I know you got all that Jedi cra—stuff, all that Jedi _stuff_ —about commitment and splitting your focus and emotional attachments goin' on, but look—look at us right now. We're handlin' it, no problem. Right?"

"Han…"

"And hey, look—Luke walked out on all his training, his entire life, because of it, right?" Han was clutching at straws now, making light of it because having put it all out there, he really didn't know how Leia would respond. "We don't want to risk the same with you, do we? So really, making this work, it's the responsible thing for you to do. Do it for…y'know…humanity. Posterity…all that."

"Are you finished?"

"I'm out of validations, is that the same thing?"

"I did like the posterity line."

He felt his lips twist to a smile. "Thanks. I'm not even entirely sure what posterity means. I just figured people say it a lot in important speeches."

He could practically hear the smile on her lips as she spoke. "… Was that an important speech?"

"Sweetheart, it was one of the biggest of my life, to date."

"Why do we always have these major conversations on the end of a comlink, when we're at opposite sides of the galaxy?"

"I dunno…safe distance, maybe?"

"There is no safe distance with you, Solo."

"So then…we may as well be together, right?"

He heard her sigh, and held his breath as the silence stretched... When she finally spoke, it was with a wry, dry, contented tone.

"You have no idea, you half-witted smartass Corellian wisecracker, how long I've waited for you to work that out."

He laughed. Sat alone with only the sterile whir of cooling fans to hear the momentous results, he laughed aloud as he shook his head. "I was waitin' for…y'know what, never mind. Just promise me that the next time we meet we won't…say anything, we won't think anything, we'll just…"

"Kiss?"

"Y'know, I was tryin' to think of something with more…gutso, but yeah, we can start with that. Ain't no safe distance at that range." Han nodded, as a lopsided smile spread slowly across his face. He may not have Empire-spanning schemes or complex, multilayered strategies that depended on the surreal powers of course-of-the-galaxy-changing bloodlines with a side-order of immortality…

Still, it was good to know that at least _this_ part of his own modest little long-term plan was ticking along just perfect. "That works for me."

.

.

.

.

.


	29. Chapter 29

.

.

 **CHAPTER 29**

.

.

.

Luke walked the long corridor alone, mind adrift, nodding in acknowledgment without really seeing the soldiers who passed him and paused in brief salute.

They'd dropped out of lightspeed a little over halfway to their objective, to make a course change and do a standard military mission update and intel download, so the cold, enfolding darkness of deep space was visible from every viewport as he walked, scant inches between him and suffocation.

Artificial gravity never really compensated for that innate feeling which lurked at the back of your head in deep space, crawling just beneath your skin. The sense that you were tumbling in constant freefall, hopelessly disoriented, blind to but waiting for that inevitable slam of impact.

You got used to it, that was all. You got used to anything, given time.

He thought back to the Star Destroyer that the Rebels had stolen and renamed _Kathol's Pride_. To memories that echoed with the life and hope which had rung down badly-lit, poorly-maintained corridors exactly the same as these, when it had been in Rebel hands. Felt an odd kind of guilt, that he'd brought the ship back to the fold. Felt again that pang of shared empathy with it.

Flat gray. His life was the same dull, flat gray of these confined corridors. And just occasionally, he'd round a corner and see a glimpse of the wide open expanse of deep space through a lozenge-shaped viewport, and sense the limitless possibilities which existed just the other side of that inches-thick transparisteel barrier whilst he remained forever trapped within these claustrophobic confines of dull, flat, monotonous gray.

Funny…turned out you could suffocate in here, too—just not from lack of air.

.

He'd passed the nearest set of viewports to turn into an internal corridor when it caught his eye—the prismatic wash of polychrome energy that distorted realspace into a brief, twisted vortex.

Backstepping to the viewport he stared as it erupted ever larger, an occlusion so great and so concentrated that he felt it within the Force—

Then the Death Star emerged from lightspeed in a flare of energy, displacement mass sending a shockwave into the void which surged outwards, its bow-front marked by a crackle of compression-charged energy.

Luke stared, mind racing from shock to comprehension just as the thud of the bow-wave impacted against the _Executor's_ shields and rumbled the deck beneath his feet. It had stopped well clear of the _Executor_ , but even at this range it filled the viewport entirely, a hulk of dark metal whose scale and mass eclipsed all else.

Familiar anger welled in the pit of his gut. He hadn't sensed Palpatine onboard the _Executor_ when they'd launched into lightspeed late last night, but Palpatine had been routinely disguising all but his close presence since his return, presumably to limit Leia's ability to detect him. So Luke hadn't questioned the lack of presence within the Force. And his Master seldom deigned to leave his sprawling quarters onboard the _Executor_ , instead summoning those he wished to speak with into his presence. To Luke's knowledge nobody had been summoned, but then he had actually, stupidly hoped that this had been his Master listening to his security concerns and keeping a low profile as they headed for the Rebel border. Guards had been assigned to Palpatine's chambers and protocols followed, but Luke hadn't sought his Master out, assuming he'd be routinely summoned at some point today.

Why—why had Palpatine lied to him about the Death Star's inclusion in this mission?

Only he hadn't, of course; he'd simply omitted to tell the entire truth. There was an ironic twist to that; it wasn't like Luke didn't do the same, constantly.

His eyes narrowed; how much else was being withheld?

The comlink in his uniform's breast pocket pipped, and he pulled it clear. "Antilles."

"Sir," There was a tremulous edge to Admiral Griff's voice—presumably because everyone on the _Executor's_ Bridge had also just experienced the unexpected shock of seeing the Death Star emerge to starboard. "The Death Star has—"

"I know, I'm looking at it."

"We…" Griff paused, listening to another Bridge officer. "We have incoming comms on a secure channel; Admiral Brie is requesting—"

"Acknowledge, and get a shuttle ready," Luke said tersely.

"Uh…the Admiral is requesting to speak with you, General."

"I'm going over."

"I…don't believe she meant—"

Luke cut the channel as he turned about, intending to go directly to the bay—then paused, considering. It took barely a second before he altered his course, intending to stop by his own quarters, first.

.

.

.

"General Antilles?"

Luke heaved a silent sigh as he strode across the _Executor's_ bay to a tri-wing Lambda shuttle, its engines already glowing amber-hot. Before it, walking swiftly towards him, was Admiral Griff.

He'd been avoiding Griff since the man had tried to recruit him into what Luke suspected more and more was somehow Shira's plan—though what she thought she could possibly gain from it, he didn't know. Obviously she knew they couldn't overthrow Palpatine—a fact borne out by Griff's attempts to recruit Luke to do the job for them.

Griff was level with Luke now, and forced to turn about to hold a conversation, as Luke didn't slow.

"Sir, did you know that the Death Star was effecting a tandem lightspeed jump alongside our own trajectory?"

Part of Luke wanted to yell, _Do I look like I knew?!_ But he'd been taught too well for too long to ever show any chink of weakness. Instead he kept walking. "What do you want, Admiral?"

Griff glanced out of the wide yaw of the hangar entrance, where the vista of star-scattered space had been completely obscured by the lower curve of the Death Star's surface, a featureless mass of shadow where the blank utilitarian skin plated its surface, darkening occasionally into the dense black of deep hollows within wide trenches of unfinished segments. He didn't speak, but simply glanced to the Death Star and back to Luke, his inference clear.

In more ways than one—Luke knew what was being left unspoken, here. Knew precisely what Griff was thinking.

This was Palpatine of old; the arrogant, authoritarian Emperor holding all power and knowledge only to himself, first because that kept everybody else down, and second because he simply didn't believe that any other being was entitled to know. Entitled to question.

Luke walked on without a word, eyes on the shuttle's ramp…

In his eagerness to push the conversation, Griff reached out and took Luke's arm just above the elbow—

It was a fragment in time, an instinctive flare of bright, scarlet-hot anger—

And Griff was sprawled on the floor five paces away, hands clutched across his chest, the Force-fired body-blow Luke had unthinkingly thrown against him leaving him gasping for breath.

A flood of remorse cooled Luke's anger, and he turned, walking towards Griff as two other officers rushed forward. Both men halted as Luke approached, frozen to nervous inaction, unsure what to do. Afraid; they were afraid of him, their fear ringing a clear note within the Force.

By the time Luke had taken a hold of Griff's upper arm and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet, his unease at his own actions and the reactions of those around him was heating to anger again. Anger at Griff, for inciting this, at Shira for her constant destructive rabble-rousing, at Palpatine for his endless power plays…and at himself, because even now, he was laying blame at everyone's feet but his own.

He dragged the breathless Admiral two paces away by the top of his arm before yanking him about, Griff's eyes wide with shock and dread, mouth still agape as he still struggled for breath.

Clear of everyone, Luke leaned in close, words a low growl. "Tell Shira Brie that if she has something she wants to ask me, then she knows where I am. Then you tell her not to bother coming. I told her a long time ago that I wasn't fuel to her ambition—that still stands. And maybe when you're walking away from that conversation you should ask yourself why, when Brie's onboard the Death Star along with Palpatine, _you_ didn't know it was coming here, either."

Releasing his grip on Griff's arm he strode away, walking into the shuttle without a backward glance. The pilot, stood at the top of the ramp throughout, backpedalled rapidly, staring with rounded eyes as Luke boarded.

"Go. Now," Luke ordered tersely.

The man turned, scuttling into the cockpit without a word.

As the ramp lifted and the shuttle's repulsors flared, Luke leaned to the armrest beside him, tilting his head to rub at his own temples.

That had gone downhill spectacularly, even for him.

He'd been aware that in Palpatine's absence and with Mara's inclusion in his life, his aversion to anyone's touch had lapsed. Now, with Palpatine back… He took a slow, leveling breath as the memory of Mara bled in about his shields—because even like this, she was the only one who could do that so effortlessly. Remembered the touch of her, the warmth of her lips as she'd kissed his eyes closed, inside his shields, as ever. With everyone else, even at his best, contact was something that happened only on his terms. Only with Mara was it on hers.

Biting his thumbnail he stared out of the small viewport, flinching at the luminescent flare as the shuttle cleared the atmospheric shields, and thought again of the position he'd somehow slipped into within Palpatine's new Empire. Thought of the many times he'd seen his father turn on some hapless unfortunate in a fit of fury.

At the time he'd thought his father weak, that he gave his own frustrations such easy sway…

Was that who he'd become—what he'd become? Bitter, frustrated. Trapped in a cage of his own empty, ingrained loyalties, too stubborn and too willfully deluded to break free?

Was that what Palpatine saw, when he looked at him? Was that what everyone saw…Darth Vader's dutiful replacement. Another Sith, taking up the mantle of his dead comrade.

Erratic thoughts flashed another memory into being—of himself at the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, having climbed out once again onto the leaded rooftops over a hundred stories up, to sit on one of the massive stone headers which cantilevered out over the sheer vertical drop. He remembered vividly hunching down against the buffeting winds as he watched the sun dip from twilight to darkness, the vial of blood that Obi-Wan Kenobi had given him laying loose in the narrow trough of the header's water spout, rattling with each high gust. Truth, destiny—his own, and the Empire's, it had transpired—trembling in the wind-whip.

In a painful pang of comprehension, he realized that he was still there—he was still alone out on that high ledge, whipped by high winds and balanced over a deadly drop.

He was tired of being the one constantly performing that insane, precarious balancing act, whilst being kept forever in the dark. Tired of being the one out on the ledge.

And he very clearly wasn't alone.

.

A pip from his comlink drew him back to the moment, and he pulled it clear and checked the ID before answering.

Han sounded just about as stunned as everyone else was, right now. "Luke? Have you seen what's just—"

"Wait where you are," Luke interrupted.

Han wasn't buying. "Why? And you don't even know where I am."

"No," Luke said grimly. "But I know where I'm going."

.

.

.

.

.

In the still silence of the Emperor's Tower onboard the Death Star, Shira watched the man himself, a study of self-possessed composure. He had moved to the lofty ovoid chamber atop its heavily-shielded spire—his personal nerve center from which he could oversee, and override if deemed necessary, his fleet—with their reversion from lightspeed, and immediately ordered the guards to stand down from their customary positions. On his command, they had retreated from either side of the turbolift exit to a more distant spot not simply outside of the substantial dual-level space, but to the outer entrance at the base of the turbolift shaft.

Then he'd calmly ascended the multiple steps to the far end of the chamber, where the higher level's lone central seat was placed before a huge circular window to suggest a dais of sorts, and sat, arms settling on the imposing chair's angled armrests, pale yellow eyes on the narrow walkway which spanned a deep void, the only way to cross from the turbolift into the chamber…

They both knew precisely whom it was that Palpatine awaited. The reply to Shira's brief comm to the _Executor's_ bridge on their reversion to real-space had come within moments, and when Shira had pushed for clarification, she had been told that General Antilles was already on a shuttle heading to the Death Star.

Curious, Shira had tried to remain close but unobtrusive as the guards were dismissed, lingering in the lower level of the chamber but retreating to one side to stare out of one of the two other circular viewports which protruded to either side of the vaulted space close to the base of the steps, her eyes on the imposing spectacle of the _Executor_ close by. Her attention, however, remained on the vast chamber behind her, intent on seeing just how a Master handled the Sith that he himself had created…

.

Antilles entered alone, covering the long walk from the turbolift to the long run of steps in fast strides and taking the first several without slowing…then halting two steps before the top in a kind of no-man's land beyond all permission, but not intolerably so. Shira turned slightly to watch, ignored by Master and advocate.

She'd expected an outburst from Antilles; incredulity, demands, frustration…

Instead he simply stared, jaw locked, eyes ablaze. Waiting.

Palpatine let the silence hang for long moments as he stared down on his advocate…then looked aside, voice bored, as if all this had been anticipated and was already tiresome. "The Death Star is more suited to this mission."

"The Death Star is undermanned, with a crew who have no craft-specific battle experience onboard a super-structure that hasn't yet had more than the most basic operational tests," Antilles came back, anger not dulling his logic. "The _Executor's_ not much better, but the Death Star takes nine minutes to calculate and prime for a lightspeed jump. The _Executor_ takes one."

Palpatine tilted his head. "Are you perhaps in a hurry to leave?"

"We're about to cross the border into hostile territory with limited crews manning untried super-structures," Antilles replied, voice clipped. "So yes, I might be."

"If you cannot hold your ground against a few tired Rebel battleships with a Super Star Destroyer and the Death Star, then perhaps you should stand down from command." Palpatine's eyes moved briefly to Shira who, realizing the reason that she had been _allowed_ to stay, took a step forward to the side of the steps in eager anticipation as the Emperor continued. "I have others more than willing to take on the mantle you shirk."

What should have been the ultimate threat was met with open derision; Antilles didn't even turn. "Let her, see how far you get. She wouldn't face off against one Rebel destroyer the last time we went to Rhen Var."

Stung, Shira spoke out, countering the harsh dismissal with an accusation of her own. "At least I was there by choice. You simply wanted to impress—isn't that right?"

He turned slowly to her…and that glare was like ice, knowing exactly who she meant. Those pale blue eyes that usually held such mocking disinterest in anything and everything around them had come alive, an unflinching wall of focused intent bearing down on her. His head tipped a fraction, the warning implicit; _Do you want to play this game with me?_

For a second she faltered—then remembered where she was; who was watching. Who she now needed to impress. Taking a breath, she rallied her thoughts—

He beat her to it, his intervention perfectly timed to cut off entirely the counter that came to her lips.

"My _attention_ was exactly where it should be—which is why we routed the Rebel destroyer and were able to get down to the Rhen Var storehouse at all. And who was there to impress, exactly, you—our _supposed_ senior officer, who was ready to turn tail and run from a single Rebel destroyer?" He turned to Palpatine at the last, though somehow he contrived to make Shira understand that his attention remained entirely on her. "Speaking of which, your Moffs are getting restless."

Shira froze, instantly nervous, though thankfully Palpatine's attention remained on Antilles, as he frowned just slightly. "Dangerously so?"

"No. Not yet, anyway, though today's unexpected maneuver can't have helped. At this point they're still looking for someone to take their risks for them." He still didn't glance directly to Shira—he'd never do something so obvious—but the brief, loaded pause stilled her breath and locked her throat as he angled his head just a fraction towards her, eyes remaining on the Emperor.

"I told them I'm fuel to no-one's ambition." He said the words softly, knowing that she'd remember his speaking them directly to her long ago, when she'd first sought a pact.

He knew—he _knew_ that she'd been the one inciting rumblings of mutiny in the officers. She'd worked to keep her involvement carefully anonymous, trying instead to get other officers to recruit Antilles…but somehow he'd made the connection and now he'd countered her veiled threat to reveal hidden truths with one of his own.

She felt her ribs tighten, aware that she'd been called—been told in no uncertain terms that if she crossed the line in bringing Mara into this then he'd have no qualms about burying her for it. His stance, his voice, his every move implied that he'd do it right now, if she spoke one more word…

She held still… and Antilles said nothing more as Palpatine leaned forward, a grin of genuine amusement lifting his voice.

"They tried to recruit _you_?! How absurdly perfect!" Even as he spoke, Palpatine's amusement curled back in on itself into a raging fury whose volatile vehemence heightened Antilles' unspoken threat. "Ungrateful curs, unable to comprehend the opportunity I offer them to stand at the very pinnacle of power as I rebuild my Empire. Petty, power-grabbing imbeciles, every one."

Still Antilles remained silent, every inch of his focus pressing in against Shira where she stood, throat locked. How did he do this—because he so clearly had the ability to turn within the space of a thought, when he wished it. He'd come here with a single, aggrieved motivation—yet had snapped that fury instantly to another cause, when it should have left him distracted and vulnerable. Every time she thought she had him, he would rise to the challenge. How much more did he keep hidden…

For the first time she found herself pondering on whether a true Sith's soul laid beneath the claim of a black heart he'd tattooed across his chest, and that customary impassive detachment came not from indifference or uncertainty, but from the innate knowledge that it was there, writ large and indelibly, if he needed it. Found herself wondering if that was the reason why their always-calculating master valued Antilles so much. Found herself wondering what other challenge he might rise to, given the incentive…

In the brief moment that it had taken for that thought to flash across her adrenaline-laced mind Palpatine jerked visibly in his seat in a rare moment of unguarded surprise—

Within a second he'd regained control, head tilting as his voice dropped to cool hostility and his lip curled back. "Where did you get that?"

Shira followed his eye line…

As Antilles had turned partially towards her to level his veiled threat, his back had become visible to Palpatine—and with it, the lightsaber hilt clipped horizontally to his belt at the small of his back. She knew that he alone was authorized to wear one even here, so it wasn't that which had offended so completely.

Antilles straightened a fraction, chin lifting as he turned to face his Master down, his fight instantly there again, though he spoke in a steady voice.

"My father's lightsaber?"

Shira squinted to see, instantly fascinated. She'd never once heard Palpatine mention the blood-parents of any of his Hands, under any circumstances—had always been under the impression that like herself, none knew anything of their true lineage. Yet here was Antilles claiming not only knowledge, but connection…and Palpatine clearly didn't like it.

The lightsaber hilt looked old—Clone Wars, perhaps, judging from the design. Like Mara, Shira had been instructed in the art of duel, though she had the distinct impression that to go up against either of the Sith before her would be a truly painful learning curve whose final lesson would be terminal. She stared, intrigued for so many reasons, but couldn't see more because Antilles' hand had moved to hover almost protectively over the hilt at his belt, though he spoke with absolutely no emotion. No nervousness, no request for permission or pushing for any further reaction—just a simple statement of fact.

"The Rebels had it."

Palpatine narrowed ocher eyes. "You stole it from them?"

"Presumably Kenobi must have kept it after Mustafar."

The planet name caught Shira's attention, of course. She'd heard whispers that Antilles was the son of a Jedi. Was it Obi-Wan Kenobi? Had Kenobi gone to Mustafar where she knew Lord Vader kept a fortress, intending to duel him, and lost or been forced to discard his own lightsaber, but that had turned out not to be the case?

Questions—none of which she could voice here and now, because Palpatine's expression had hardened, his lips narrowing dangerously. It was a moment before Shira too realized that Antilles had ignored his Master's question entirely, and she held her breath, wondering whether Palpatine would call his advocate on the fact.

Instead he leaned back, derision saturating his words. "And you intend to wear it? An antiquated relic?"

"Aren't they all?" Antilles came back, unmoved.

The edge of a sneer clipped Palpatine's words as he settled in his throne, a study of blasé indifference. "Wear it if you wish. The last time your father fought with it, he lost pitifully. Had I not intervened he would have died." He glanced to the hilt. "They say some crystals are always ill-omened—that they bring nothing but misfortune and misery."

"Then it seems we're well matched," Antilles said of the hilt, refusing to be led. "Perhaps I should have told that to your Moffs—they might have reconsidered their offer."

Palpatine stared, clearly aware of Antilles' effort to refocus his attention… then let a brief smile twitch his lip. "Perhaps so. Or perhaps you'll yet have the chance to illustrate it more…tangibly." His flash of anger spent, he cooled to more calculating consideration, eyes finally lifting from the offending lightsaber hilt. "Do I have sufficient reliable officers to replace them?"

Antilles' shoulders dropped a fraction as he found his own composure, the moment—the strange, intense, private battle of wills between them—having run its course. Who had won, Shira wasn't sure; Antilles still wore the offending lightsaber, but it was he who had tried to sidestep further argument.

Now he shook his head minutely, breathing coming under control as he considered his Master's question. "Probably. But not right now. Too big a shakeup already would be viewed as instability—especially this close to retaking Coruscant."

Palpatine nodded, likely already aware that it was the truth. He glanced aside in thought. "Do you believe them still utilizable?"

"They're reliable enough, for now," Antilles said flatly. "If they have an iota of intelligence they'll let you take Coruscant for them before they make any kind of move, anyway. I'd still advise you to return to Fondor, though."

"Then Sekati isn't one of them?"

"To my knowledge, no. Neither is Admiral Bress."

Palpatine settled a little further knowing that the Death Star's present command was not involved, the greater game reinstating. "If not, then my presence here is secure."

"As secure as it was at Corsin?"

Shira felt her jaw drop a fraction at the challenge that those calmly uttered words represented, given Palpatine's outburst just moments before. At Antilles' audacity not just in citing the place of his Master's assassination, but his choice of delivery, softened with neither apology nor validation.

Her eyes narrowed as she dissected the exchange, for the first time considering the possibility that she wasn't alone in her difficulty controlling Antilles. Perhaps she shouldn't feel too frustrated at the challenge, if Palpatine himself quite clearly had the same problems. Luke Antilles, it seemed, would only be led so far, that outward apathy simply one more layer of his armor.

Palpatine's cheek twitched, chin lifting. "We will remain at Rhen Var until my clones and their facilities are loaded onboard."

"That could have been accomplished onboard the _Executor_. Bringing the Death Star here was unnecessary."

Palpatine smiled thinly as he replied, his confidence reinstated—and why shouldn't it be? For all his defiance, Antilles clearly sought to protect his Master. "The Death Star is the Emperor's flagship, and the clones are the Empire's future. What better vessel to transport them."

"Given that you want their existence kept secret, the _Executor_ would have been sufficient."

"I disagree." Palpatine raised his eyebrows, leaning forward a fraction. "Unless you believe that we may be at risk, in some way?" There was a snide taunt within the words that Shira didn't understand, as Palpatine's head tilted. "Perhaps you fear that some potential information breach exists among us?"

She watched in silent fascination as Antilles clenched his jaw, the provocation unknown but obviously running deep.

Having won whatever challenge he'd just issued, Palpatine shook his head, reiterating his intention. "The clones and their attendant facilities will travel only onboard the Death Star."

"And when they reach their new destination? Are you intending to deliver them onboard the Death Star—broadcast to the entire galaxy where they're based? No—so they're going to have to be offloaded at some point to be transported to their final—"

"The point is mute," Palpatine cut him off. "I have made my decision."

Antilles nodded slowly. "You told me the same thing just yesterday—when you said that the _Executor_ would retrieve the clones."

"Upon which you voiced concerns regarding my security onboard the Super Star Destroyer. I took them into account, and altered my plans accordingly."

"Without telling me."

"And so we come to the crux of your tantrum. You feel you were excluded…when others were not."

Antilles' eyes flicked briefly towards Shira, then back to Palpatine. "I'm not a child and this isn't a tantrum. You systematically exclude one or both of us from full disclosure as if necessary information is a gift granted at your personal discretion, then judge us on the results. My entire life I've watched you do that, to control those around you. To play people against each other."

"I have told you before," Palpatine ground, "Trust is earned. Until I have secured Coruscant, the safest place for my clones is onboard the Death Star. After I have regained control of the Core systems, they will be separated and moved to undisclosed locations."

Antilles' eyebrows rose. "Undisclosed? You want me here, you want me to serve, you want me willing to dedicate my entire life…but you won't tell me that?"

"Earn it," Palpatine repeated, both demand and coercion in his words as his eyes again dropped to the belt which held Antilles' lightsaber, then lifted, full of meaning. "Tell me the words you once spoke so fervently—that you would give your life to save me, that you placed my life always before your own. Say it right now—even now—and mean it."

Antilles glared in silence, pushed on the back heel by the unexpected challenge. He shook his head slowly, jaw grinding. "You make it hard…..but you know," he ground the words, angry and steadfast in the same breath. "you _know_ that I will always put your life before my own."

Shira stared, shaken and fascinated by the depth of feeling in that oath, reluctance and devotion both. Mara was no different, in her devotion; if anything her loyalty ran deeper, in its almost desperately willful blindness. Would she have been the same herself, had she been raised by this man and not Lord Vader? Trapped within the inescapable influence of a consummately compelling psyche who demanded everything, always.

Palpatine settled almost imperceptively at Antilles' uneasy affirmation, his voice taking on a satisfied tinge as he arched his brow. "Despite those you hold around you?"

She was still watching Palpatine—still watching the master at work—when she realized that the silence had held a fraction too long, and looked to Antilles. He remained still, jaw locked, mouth a thin line, eyes hooded.

What was this, that came between them? She'd wondered for so long whether she might oust Antilles based on his lack of loyalty, but that wasn't it at all. It was something else entirely—some _one_ else entirely. Not Jade—Antilles had very purposely pushed her away, and Palpatine had specifically said _those you hold close to you._

Palpatine leaned forward a fraction, persuasive, now. "Everything that I said, my friend, everything that I have ever offered you, still stands…but for you, not the Corellian. You ask why I withhold information when—"

"No." Antilles practically barked the word. "Don't try to deflect this again. This isn't about him."

"You're right," Palpatine stated, pressing the offensive—a technique that had already relegated the Death Star's unexpected arrival here to a minor point in some greater argument. "This is about you. This is about my advocate—my brother in arms—being unable to live up to the vow he has made. I ask for no more than I ever did, no more than you agreed to so willingly, in the past— _vowed_ to me on bended knee. What am I to do, save to look at just what exactly has changed."

"You asked for my life—my entire life, nothing but you. I gave it." Antilles shook his head. "What more do you want from me—what do you want that I haven't already given?"

"Your obedience," Palpatine said instantly. "Always, in all things."

"You have my loyalty. That—"

"Is not enough," Palpatine interrupted. "I need an advocate who is unconditionally obedient."

"If I think something's wrong then I should speak out. I'm the only person who—"

"No. You, above all others, should comply. I raised you to be my greatest ally. My only equal."

Antilles glanced away, laughing dryly. "You see no-one as that."

"Then prove me wrong."

"No-one ever could—not in your eyes."

"You alone have the potential to…yet you continually disappoint."

Shira's chest constricted at the unthinking dismissal of her own abilities, in Palpatine's callous words. Unaware, he settled back, eyes straying as he tilted his head in a play of consideration. "Perhaps your father was right."

This time the reference to Antilles' past seemed halfway between taunt and warning, as Palpatine continued in soft tones. "So many people told me so often that I should terminate the…experiment of my new advocate."

Shira frowned at the veiled threat, remembering Lord Vader saying the same thing of Antilles more than once—pushing for it at every single stumble the growing youth made.

Far from being intimidated, Antilles' voice rose a notch. "Even now? I just told you that a shake-up in your senior officers would be seen as instability, and you try this, now?"

Palpatine narrowed his eyes as Shira watched, fascinated, contemplating whether this was the allowance one was forced to tolerate, having created a true Sith advocate. The few occasions that she had observed Lord Vader interacting with the Emperor had not seemed so contentious, but privately she knew that her own Master's mindset had been very much the same as Antilles'; both respectful and contentious in equal measure.

Was this the way for every Sith apprentice?

Lord Vader had told her that the control of one's advocate kept a Sith Master vigilant—kept him sharp, Shira supposed. It was the way of the Sith, he had said. The desire to create something of true power that you alone could command. The necessity to have such a being working to your advantage, however reluctantly.

Privately, Palpatine had held Antilles up before Shira as some kind of paradigm so many times… Was this the price, for the chance to access this kind of power—was the controlling of it so much harder?

When Palpatine's lip slid into a brief half-smile, she knew he would have had to dig deep to find even that, no matter how laced with a barb. "You are one officer—hardly a sweeping reform. And even that is manageable, with care."

"One officer—not a brother in arms?" Antilles asked dryly. "And manageable how? You want to replace me with her? She can't do what I do, and you know it. She can't achieve what I can achieve, and even if she could, it wouldn't be in your name. But then you already know that. You didn't even try to change that self-serving attitude of hers, because it wasn't worth it. She fills a niche, just like everyone else around you does—like I do. We're all just numbers in your equation. And it must eat you up inside, that you can't find a replacement for this particular component."

Palpatine was on the defensive again—and for any Sith, that meant attack. "On the contrary. It is your bloodline that is indispensable, not you yourself."

Antilles took a breath—then halted. And seeing him falter, Palpatine pressed.

"You believe yourself irreplaceable…and perhaps that is my doing, in allowing you such indulgence." Palpatine resettled as he spoke, weight resting to one arm as he leaned forward. "But you are exactly as unique as a single cell in your body."

The words came out coolly, something between an observation and a warning—

And it was as if the air was sucked from the room. Replaced with something dark and cold and altogether more dangerous, as Antilles' head tilted, mouth opening a fraction as let out a low breath, disbelieving words almost lost within it. "You didn't…"

It was fascinating to watch—all the more so because Antilles usually held that perfect sabacc-face. But the slow sea-change from disillusionment to distaste to offense to rising, roiling anger rippled visibly across his features and out through the Force, unchecked. His jaw tightened, body straightening, shoulders squaring. "Where are they?"

Palpatine turned aside to stare into the cold void beyond the curved viewpanes, smiling enigmatically. He was enjoying this moment; Shira could see it quite clearly. Enjoying that he could make the storm clouds gather, knowing he alone could control them.

Already outraged and alienated, having barely been talked down from his initial anger, Antilles overreacted instantly. He took another step up, almost to the dais, the challenge in his voice unchecked. "Tell me—now."

"Is that a demand—from _me?!"_ Palpatine stood abruptly, pushing for control, and Shira felt her breath lock in a shocked gasp at the back of her throat as she jolted, grinning.

But if Antilles saw the change in his Master, he ignored it. "Where? How many—how old?"

It was now that she realized the threat Palpatine had leveled: clones. Galen Marek had been cloned repeatedly, first to serve Lord Vader's intent, and then Palpatine's. That was what Palpatine was insinuating now; he was talking about clones of Antilles, the grin which split his face an open provocation.

"Perhaps you should have explored a little further, on Rhen Var."

"There were no other cloning chambers." Antilles said the words flatly. Contemptuously.

Palpatine nodded, utterly confident. "One day you may thank me that there is. Somewhere."

"Destroy them."

"They are your future."

"I didn't ask for one—not this one."

"You are young." Palpatine's voice had taken on a dismissive air; amused, almost. "Youth always believes itself immortal. I can give you that in reality, to—"

"To what? You think I don't know you?! This is insurance, for yourself. Another generation, to start again. Another life to break apart!"

"The clones are to augment you, not replace you. I will teach you essence tranf—"

"I _don't want to learn_. I don't want this!" The last was yelled through clenched jaw, Antilles' control barely holding.

Shira flinched, feeling the frisson of nerves rush through her, pulling a smile to her lips.

Glancing briefly to her then back to his increasingly uncontrollable advocate, Palpatine angled his shoulders in unspoken intimidation. "We will speak later, on this matt—."

"No, we'll speak now."

There was a moment, to Shira's perceptions. A single moment that held suspended—because this hadn't happened before, she realized. This argument was going beyond anything that either had tested. She stared, heart pounding.

Palpatine put the formidable force of utter authority into his unwavering voice, his command absolute. "Go back to the _Executor_."

Antilles held his ground to the top of the steps, outrage firing his resolve. "Destroy them."

Palpatine purposely straightened, tall and intimidating in his power and his potency, a man in his prime compared to Antilles, slight and seventeen, a head-height less, the difference magnified by that final step. But he still held his ground as Palpatine lifted his arm to point, voice low. "Go back to your quarters."

"Where are the clones being—"

It was instant, a rush of action and reaction that took place so fast that it was done before Shira's mind had registered the first move—

Palpatine's other hand, curled behind his back since he had stood, snapped around in a rippling haze of bright white as he summoned and threw a bolt of Force-fed lightening towards Antilles—

And with a yell Luke snatched his open hand up— and deflected the bolt, shunting it upwards to flash and flare as its power was spent against the high arched roof, igniting a cascade of sparks which sizzled and danced on the metal floor plates between the two men.

In the ozone-baked silence that followed Shira realized she'd stepped back two hasty paces, body pressed against the cool transparisteel of the viewport behind her as Palpatine stared, the air charged.

Shira's eyes were dragged unstoppably to Antilles as his shoulders loosened, weight lifting to the balls of his feet…

And for the first time in all the years she'd known him, Palpatine blinked. He backed down. She saw it quite distinctly.

He hadn't known—he hadn't known that Luke could do that.

She glanced to Luke, taking in his fast breaths, still visible in the rise and fall of his taut shoulders… Neither had he—not against Palpatine.

"They don't exist." Palpatine's words leveled out to a mocking tone. "They never have. I was simply curious as to your opinion."

"You could have asked."

"I just did. In a manner which gave me a far truer account of your feelings. Now…I know. A great deal has become clear."

Antilles stared…but the moment had passed. Palpatine had held his composure, and Antilles' anger had run its course, his shock at his own reaction overriding his outrage.

Shira slowly straightened from the cool viewport she'd pressed back against, breath regulating as she watched Antilles wrestle his own emotions under control, his back straight, hands clenched to fists. Her lips curled slowly into an appreciative smile as the shock of her tripping heart was replaced by the adrenaline-laced torrent of tumbling thoughts and calculating possibilities….

His back to her, Luke stared for a few moments longer, unreadable…

Then he turned about and strode from the room, the tension clinging about him to Shira's senses, darkly enfolding, reminding her of nothing so much as her old Master Lord Vader's swirling black cloak…

.

.

.

.

.

Luke sat alone in the shuttle, eyes closed, thoughts racing. A dense, dark knot lay coiled within itself in the deepest shadows to the very center of his perceptions, and he wasn't sure if it was his anger, his frustration, his outrage…or something bigger than all of that, crushed and compressed like carbon to coal, waiting for a spark. Like shadows and tangles, trying to unfurl—and where had he heard that before?

The words hung, potent. Whispered from the past directly to the core of him.

He let his head fall back, trying to quantify something so intense and complex and compressed. Carbon to coal to…what? Where had he heard it?

Whispers skittered, tantalizing, and without realizing he let his connection shift within the Force from vague imprecision to absolute razor focus:

…  
 _..._

 _The growling flare of a lightsaber blade close to his heart—and his Master's voice, barbed and taunting.  
"I believe it's still in there—all that power and passion. All crushed down right here at the very core of you, that much stronger for your ability to constrain it. Like a diamond waiting to shine. What do you say…if I slice off all this dull and dour dirt you've acquired whilst languishing in the mud of mediocrity, will I see my Sith shine again?"  
..._

 _ _...  
_ Carbon to coal; absolute black  
Occus Tor_

Luke doubled over, fist coming up to close tightly over his chest as he fought to rise against the downward drag of the Force. He surfaced like a diver coming up from deep water, hauling in a deep gasp of air, followed by the echo of his Master, still grinning, still gloating—

" _I_ _made_ _him what he is. And if he chooses to carve such a claim into his own skin, then I will make him live up to it."  
_

 _...  
_ …

The moment broke, falling away into darkness and leaving him clutching tightly to the center of his chest as if he could hold it all back; crush it in and press it down one more time. The echo of dark fate that a child of seven had unknowingly set in motion when he'd first been brought to Coruscant and, with insufficient words to categorize, had seen only shadows and tangles, closing in.

Was it fate that dragged him forwards…or his own doubts, which held him back?

He knew only that he was reluctant to unravel it.

There were no clones, he knew that—had known it absolutely the instant that he'd opened his mind, unconstrained, to the Force. But it was immaterial. The fact that they didn't exist at this moment didn't mean that Palpatine wasn't planning their creation—they were clearly sufficiently in the man's thoughts that he'd tested the water. And his claim that they would be for Luke's advantage… Palpatine worked to no-one's advantage but his own.

What Luke did know absolutely, was the error he'd made in having allowed himself to be goaded into showing the extent of his ability. In the heat of the moment he'd slipped, and let loose a level of capability that he'd never previously disclosed in front of Palpatine.

And why was that a bad thing—to demonstrate the extent of his connection to the man who had driven him his whole life to take control of that power?

Sat alone in the shuttle, eyes on the cold darkness beyond the viewport, he chewed at his thumbnail, aware precisely of why…

There would be reprisals. And given the significance of both his own misdemeanor and Palpatine's paranoia, they would be severe.

.

.

.

Onboard the _Executor_ Luke stalked the long, dour gray corridors back to his quarters without seeing, thoughts still rushing, head slowly shaking as he walked without acknowledging the salutes of crew and officers.

Was this the decision that his father had faced, once?

In the midst of a civil war, with enemies all around and precious few choices left beneath the immediate demands of simply reacting moment to moment, Luke was well aware that a lifetime of habit meant that he was effectively becoming the young Vader to the young Palpatine. He was stood now where his father had once stood, facing the same decision that his father had faced.

Should he keep Palpatine in power, just as his father had?

Han's words of Palpatine rang in his head. _"I know exactly the game he's playing. It's called locking your advocate down so he'll do as he's told. You think that's nothing, you think it's just some sideline to the bigger plan…but without an advocate, he's stretched too thin and he knows it."_

He'd had no comeback at the time, hard facts settling with leaden weight about him, knowing Han's claim was true but aware that he still had a choice; the ultimate choice. Live or die.

He'd always had that choice, even here. Now, today, it had been taken from him.

Even if there were no clones at present, the matter was clearly coming to the fore in Palpatine's mind. Palpatine could claim as often as he wanted out loud that the clones were for Luke to fall back on; assurance that if necessary he could transfer his existing awareness and memories, intact, into another vessel…

But that wasn't _necessary_. A clone could be given life with no transfer of consciousness; could come into this galaxy as a blank mind awaiting direction. By Palpatine.

Because Luke knew his Master of old; knew his mind. Knew that right now the man who had raised him and trained him was thinking why _shouldn't_ he do that; replace one advocate with another of equal potential. Replace problem with potential.

Knowing how that mind worked, how it was drawn always to power, why _wouldn't_ Palpatine access the bloodline whose abilities had always exceeded Palpatine's own, and try one more time to tame it? After all that he'd done to monopolize Luke's life once he had realized that his grip on Luke's father was slipping…why not one more time—one more life?

Either Luke himself voluntarily learned the secret to transfer his mind—his essence—to a clone, for the sake of some twisted sense of saving another, of controlling his own destiny, or—

Or. He stopped it. Now. Because whispering ever louder in the back of his mind, shrouded in the Darkness that his own Master had taught him to hear, was the thought he'd tried so hard to ignore. Another path—far more dangerous to his soul and his sanity.

Was it _this_ , in truth? The decision his father had faced…and surrendered beneath. The easier path—because after that first excruciating wrench, it would be just that; easy. It would be _so much easier_ to simply stop feeling. Stop struggling.

When had the need to protect those he held close turned from a choice into a compulsion? Another addiction to add to the list. When would he understand that the complications inherent would place him always in contention with Palpatine? Two intractable wills locked in contention, an endless orbit with no possible respite.

Reaching his quarters, he entered without keying the lights; he didn't need them. Stopping at the large, cluttered desk which overpowered the spartan room, he began pulling drawers out entirely to clatter to the floor unheeded, their contents scattered.

He'd known since his early teens that his abilities eclipsed his Master's. But growing up in Palpatine's shadow and subject to his harsh and ready judgment, it had never actually occurred to Luke that his Master might for one second fear him. It had been, for as long as Luke could remember, the polar opposite. Every waking minute of his childhood as Luke had grown, he'd lived in dread of his Master's wrath. And as the years had passed Palpatine had seemed to invest ever more energy and attention in maintaining absolute control…and like a fool, Luke had always assumed that it was for no other reason than that he was, to his Master, a problem to be borne; an annoyance which had to be constantly monitored and curbed, in order to be of any use whatsoever.

Until today.

Today, the reason that had been glaring out through the Force—though Luke had chosen not to acknowledge it—had come into sharp focus. In those last few moments, had he truly understood.

That dangerous thought whispered afresh in his mind; _afraid_. Not himself; not the child beneath his Master's constant retribution.

Palpatine had backed down, because he was afraid of Luke. Of what he could become.

 _You don't betray our own Master—ever._

A mantra, hammered home without mercy over and over throughout his life.

He shook his head quickly, mentally retreating, nervous at his own train of thought and angry at himself for letting all this come into being. For believing that he could change anything. He'd stood at this point so many times before and been beaten mercilessly back down.

Everything was complicating. Even he wasn't sure he could live like this any longer, and the people around him were inevitably getting caught up in the fallout. As they always did.

There it was again, that word; complicated.

But he knew of old how to simplify it.

Opening a cupboard set against the wall, his hand raked through it to drag its contents out and let them fall at his feet…and there—there it was. Lifting it, Luke turned and walked to the regulation-issue desk in the center of his quarters, slamming it down on the cold metal surface as he sat, eyes never leaving it.

Intensely, deeply aware that on the table before him he'd placed a small box whose contents could make all these punishing, pummeling crises disappear. All of them. In an instant, as it had so many times before. At the very least, it could make them bearable—make _this_ bearable—for a short while. Until next time. He stared at the box, breathing heavily, jaw clamping against his lip as it twitched, need, both mental and physical, tugging at his core…

.

.

.

.

.


	30. Chapter 30

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER THIRTY**

.

.

Han knew damn well that Luke had been back onboard for well over an hour. He'd left his fifth message on the kid's comm, knowing it was as unlikely to be heeded as its predecessors. He'd been to the kid's quarters once already hours earlier, and jolted in surprise at the huge black scrawl which had covered one wall—it hadn't been there just yesterday, and wasn't Luke's usual tightly-controlled, scratchy sketches. Uneasy, Han had returned to his own quarters, but despite having waited as Luke had asked before he'd headed over to the Death Star, something in the back of Han's thoughts was beginning to itch with familiarity, the daubed wall and the kid's lack of contact reminding him of the old times, on Coruscant.

"Screw this." Rising, he slapped the door plate and set out down battleship-gray corridors, the lights in the habitation decks dimmed partway to indicate the ship's night-cycle.

The smell hit him before the door to Luke's quarters was even fully open; that bitter, burned tang, like caff that had boiled dry.

The Death Star's arrival had set everyone off-kilter. Han knew now that Luke had immediately contacted Palpatine's quarters here onboard the _Executor_ , to find the man himself absent. And having heard the tone of Luke's voice when he'd been setting out to the Death Star to confront Palpatine, Han knew it wouldn't have been pretty. But that was the thing about confronting Palpatine: it always, _always_ somehow left you in worse shape than when you'd gone in. That crazy bastard was all-hells cunning, and there was no way that you'd ever come out of an argument with him and not be licking your own wounds. It just didn't happen.

So this shouldn't surprise him, really. By the time the door closed behind him, Han's brain had already fused a myriad of old memories together; similar situations and their inevitable, ingrained reactions…so he knew precisely what he'd see.

Still, he stared, for a moment transported unwillingly back. It was like no time had passed since that night on the _Relentless_ ,before Han had left the Empire for good at Corsin. When he'd come back to his quarters on the Star Destroyer to find a sixteen year old Luke OD'd on spice, so strung out he could barely speak.

So he wasn't surprised…but he sure as hell wasn't happy about it.

"You are _kidding_ me," Han rasped.

It actually wasn't as bad—it really wasn't. Yeah, Luke was sat at the desk in his quarters smoking spice, with four tabs already extinguished randomly on the desk's surface, close to the lightsaber hilt that Leia had given him. But he looked up when Han spoke, a wry half-squint in his eyes, very much awake and at least halfway aware.

He didn't speak—didn't come up with any kind of apology or even validation. Just lifted the lit spice stick to his lips and took another long drag, eyes still on Han.

Daring him to react…using it to push him back, even now.

Question was…why? Why _now_?

"What'd you do?" Han asked wearily, aware it must've been bad. "Where d'you even get this?" He glanced to the open-lidded box. There was a month's supply in there, easy.

"Oh that's your question," Luke murmured dryly. "We have a Death Star floating five hundred clicks to starboard, and _that's_ what you want to know."

"No, that's what I wanna know first," Han corrected. "Doesn't seem much point in asking you anything else when you're like this."

Luke at least had the good grace to look down, and a long silence stretched as Han waited to see just where this was going—because it _was_ going somewhere. If the kid hadn't wanted Han to catch him, he could have gone to a hundred places where he wouldn't be found. This was a statement, when he couldn't find the words. This was the same attempt to push people back that it'd always been. Luke's next words proved that.

"You need to leave," he said quietly, at last.

"Seriously? We're seriously having this conversation again?"

"No, we're not. This isn't a discussion. It's me telling you what's gonna happen. You're leaving."

"Why?"

"Because I just said so."

"Oh, and that's it? You jump up and down about Palpatine denying you any kind of free choice, and then you want to do exactly the same thing to me?"

Luke took a long drag on the spice stick, face expressionless. "That's right. I told you before, I had a good teacher."

"Copishit."

The kid laughed—the kind of brief, breathless, manic laugh that clung to the very edge of reason. But it broke the ice a fraction; made Luke's tensed shoulders ease. "You know the senior Moffs are mutinous." He said it conversationally, as if it amused him.

The abrupt change of subject made Han blink, but it wasn't like the kid didn't regularly break topic like this, so he went with it. "Good luck to 'em."

"They want me to help them." As he spoke, Luke nudged the lightsaber hilt, making it flash muted glints in the low light.

Han felt his chest tighten. "You gonna do it?"

"Hell no. He'll rip them to pieces."

"If you were helping 'em, he might not."

"So now you want me to help hold the Empire together?" There was teasing amusement in the kid's tired voice, tinged with that disparaging edge he got whenever he'd smoked too much.

Han shrugged. "Guess I figured it was a halfway spot—y'know, try out the mutiny thing closer to home, before you actually went on to help the Rebels."

"Soft spice, huh?" It was a reference to the legal spice sticks that you could buy anywhere, whose low dose of ryll was so negligible that hard users often fell back on it to try to come down from real usage.

"Pretty much."

That breathless laugh became dry and bitter and dismissive. "You think Palpatine doesn't know? You think he doesn't know the minds of every officer who comes into contact with him?"

"Well then why doesn't he do something about it?"

"Because there's no _need_ , right now. He's already looking for replacements—reliable ones. He has Moff Sekati in tow, he has Moff Kiyoma, he has Admiral Bress. He'll set everything in place before he moves, so that the situation remains stable—remains tenable. Controllable. You have to…" Luke shook his head, frustration obvious. "You have to stop underestimating him."

"You have to stop thinking he's invincible. He's not. He makes mistakes—big ones. Like Corsin."

"Corsin was an aberration. A one-off."

"He was still as dead."

Luke's head snapped up, all that banked brittleness let loose by the spice. "And just what is he now, then? What did you win, Han? Really?"

"His Empire's in tatters, half the Rim is independent…you're telling me that wasn't a victory?"

"… Sure, Han. Feels exactly like one from where I'm sitting." Grinding the stub out into the desk surface, he reached to take another from the box. Han pushed the lid closed from his side of the desk, stopping him.

Luke slammed his hand palm-down on the table, making the lightsaber hilt jump as he stood in abrupt anger. "You're no different from them—the Moffs; the walking dead. Do you understand that?! Do you understand it even now, when I'm _telling_ you what he does? You think that because he lets you stay you've fooled him? That he trusts you? He doesn't trust anyone! He allows people close even when he knows they're plotting against him, because he's that confident, Han! He's _that_ sure he can remove you at any time he pleases. You're nothing to him—nothing. You think you've fooled him—he's fooled you. And he'll spend the next however many months just lulling you further into that false sense of security while you think you're doing the same to him…right up until the moment that he turns on you."

"You think you're any different," Han challenged in quiet tones. "You think he's not doing the same thing with you?"

"Of course he is! But he needs me. He doesn't need anything or anyone else, but he needs me!"

"Or is that part of the game too? Is that what he tells you, to keep you here? C'mon, you know how this goes, you know what he is."

Luke moved clumsily around the desk, clearly intending to walk away. Han shook his head. "Still the same, huh?" The kid slowed, so Han pushed on. "All or nothing, remember? Remember I said that to you back on Coruscant, all that time ago. That it's who you are—what you are. What you had to be, to survive there. You had to commit every last ounce to everything you did, without hesitation, because if you didn't that place would eat you alive. You didn't have the luxury of doubt—couldn't afford it. It would have ripped you apart. That's….that's all still playing out, now, in your head—the knowledge of everything you did for him. Because you _had_ to. Because it was all you knew. But it isn't, any more…so it isn't enough of a reason any more, and you know it, don't you? You didn't before, but you do now."

Luke turned, a frown bringing his eyebrows down, his comprehension buying Han a few minutes of attention.

"Look at you…hell, you're so nearly there! You're so nearly thinking straight, for the first time in your life—thinking for yourself. That's why being back here is so hard—because you know it's wrong! You _know_ it is!" Han shook his head. "But it won't last, not here. Because everything that made you what you were when I first met you is still in effect here, and you'll slowly drop back down into what you used to be, just to survive. Because if you don't it'll drive you insane, won't it?"

Luke slowed, hand out to the wall to steady himself as his body swayed slightly, the only real sign of the amount of spice that was already swimming in his veins. But he was listening, head turned just slightly so that he could see Han from the corner of his eye. Sometimes the spice did that; bought Han more attention than the kid was ever willing to risk when sober. So he pushed on, voice calm but firm.

"All or nothing—it's who you are. It's what he made you, because he knew if he did, he'd be able to control you." Han pointed to the crushed stubs of too many spice sticks on the table. "That's what these are…and it's what Palpatine is, too. And it's why you'll go back to serving him, if you stay here—because you _will_ go back to it all, if you stay. It will all fall back to just exactly how it was. He'll drag you so far down that a single word of praise from him'll be a bigger high than any of this stuff. These—" He scuffed the back of his hand across the table, scattering the spent stubs, "these are nothing. These are just a coping mechanism for the real addiction, aren't they? Palpatine's the real drug—he's the addiction that you've been carefully fed since childhood…and I think you know that. You _know_ that it's why you'll serve him, if you stay. All or nothing."

Luke looked down, face perfectly impassive as he whispered, "Well then you should read the writing on the wall, and leave while you still can."

"You know the deal," Han said without hesitation. "I'll walk away the moment you do."

Luke turned—and there was something in his eyes, something of the kid again that Han had argued with so much on Coruscant, all locked down and strung out, knowing he was wrong but in too deep to even begin to know how to pull back. "And you know the deal too, Han… I can't walk away. Ever. Believe me, I've tried."

They remained silent for long moments, neither able to compromise…until Luke finally turned to the door, reaching for the release plate.

"Wait," Han said, shaking his head. He always let it go; he always let it go, at this point. Always let the kid walk out. And Luke—he always walked out, because having made the move, he couldn't back down. All or nothing. "Wait, don't. C'mon, sit down."

Luke sighed, head down…but he turned about to walk wearily back across the sparsely-furnished room and sat heavily into the upright chair to the far side of the desk.

Silence held for a long time…

Then, as if the last outburst had simply not happened, Luke reached up to rub his temples, shaking his head, voice quiet.

"Where do you want me to go Han? Back to your Rebel Alliance? Call me a pessimist, but I think that dumping a five-hundred-man crew in deep space so that I could steal their Star Destroyer might be construed as having burned my bridges. As might two counts of murder."

"You didn't kill those two men."

Luke stared at Han in silence, expression blank, before finally reaching out across the desk. For a moment Han thought it was to retrieve his lightsaber, which he'd left as he'd stood—but instead he reached past it to the small silver box, still sat beside it. Pulling a spice stick free, he lifted the flint-lighter to ignite it, then settled back, eyes on Han, who had no idea if the kid actually needed the spice this much, was makin' some kind of silent point of denying Han's accusations, or simply looking to incite a reaction.

He dragged his hand back through his hair and down his nape to rub at tense shoulders in burgeoning frustration. "You know it's a good job you and your sister didn't grow up together. The galaxy would have imploded if you'd ever locked horns on something important."

"I _think_ the whole 'Who gets to run the galaxy' thing is considered reasonably significant in some circles," Luke muttered dryly. He moved in his chair, voice giving a fraction. "But you're right, I have no argument with Leia—not really. I'll protect her, if I can."

"I know that," Han said quietly. "Why d'you think I'm still here."

Kid shook his head, eyes on the spice stick whose inky blue-black smoke rose to hang in loose drifts. "I just…I can't be what she wants me to be."

"Fair enough," Han said with typical gruff grace. "But you don't have to be what _he_ wants you to be, either. That's not the only other choice. Remember that."

Luke still shook his head. "It's not up to me."

"Yes it is. That's precisely who it's up to, Luke."

"People like me— Once others…learn what we are…they change. I do, in their eyes. Either they want to use me, or they want to get as far away from me as they possibly can. I don't blame them."

"Yeah? Which of those am I?"

Luke glanced up, making the barest eye contact. "You're different."

"No, I'm normal. I'm every damn person in the galaxy. That's why Palpatine didn't want me near you; he'd spent a lot of effort over the years makin' sure the only people you ever came into contact with were those who'd want to use you or run from you. What about the _Pride_ —when you were on the Rebel ship—were people there like that?"

"They didn't know what I was."

"They know what your sister is…d'they treat her like that?"

"I'm not Leia. They would have found that out eventually—probably the hard way."

"You might've sabotaged yourself, sure," Han said. "Exactly like you did. Because you just can't help but trip yourself up, can you? Just to see how hard you'll fall this time."

"I didn't sabotage anything."

"You didn't tell 'em it wasn't you who killed those guys, either. Would've been real simple to prove, especially to Leia. But you just let it all come crashing down anyway, didn't you? Because that's how the galaxy works, right? Because you thought you deserved it—maybe not that time, but in general…right?"

The Kid glanced up, jaw tight, and Han shook his head as he leaned forward, arms resting on the desk between them. "Don't you see? Don't you see what you were doing, trailing from Rim-world to Rim-world, even before that? Never settling, always moving on, further and further."

"I was trying to survive."

"No," Han said unequivocally. "You could survive anywhere, if you had to. With all you know, all they drummed into you, you could thrive. Technically. The problem is you don't know how to have a life _for yourself_. They never taught you that—in fact they actively pulled you away from it, givin' you something to do every hour of every day. You don't know how to live any other way than how Palpatine taught you, and that's in his service… But you don't _like_ that life. You don't want it. You don't want anything to do with it. So you keep on punishing yourself for it, for all you did, in Palpatine's name. For all you know you still would do, if he ordered it. All of that—all of it— _that's_ what you're trying to outrun."

He sighed, voice softening as he shook his head, wary of pushing the kid too far. Aware that if he tried to somehow force Luke to tell Leia everything—to actually do what he wanted to do, deep down—then the kid would scare, just as he had when Han had asked for his help in the hangar onboard the _Pride_. Would back off; get aggressive or evasive, or both.

Push him too hard, and Luke just pushed back against it.

But if Han simply laid down the facts, let the kid get there on his own…then it just might happen.

"Luke, you're tryin'…you're trying to outrun _yourself_. And you've gone all the way from Coruscant to the Rim and the ass-end of the galaxy to do it…but it just keeps on following, doesn't it? Because no matter how far you run, you take it all with you. That's why you ended up with us—with the Alliance—because you were still running. And you left because you're _still_ running. Because you won't deal with the real issue. So you came back here, to him…and you've got itchy feet already, haven't you? That's what this is." He reached out to grab the box of spice and upend it with a bang, scattering its contents onto the table. "That's what this is for. This is just another way to run. You grew up in a place where you had zero options. It was the only way, I know that. And Palpatine's worked so damn hard to keep on drumming that into you—that this is the only way. But this isn't living. It's not even surviving, any more. And you've proved to yourself now that you can't outrun it. Punishing yourself isn't gonna do it, either—that's not how it works, you know that by now. Pulling yourself down, sabotaging everything you do, throwing all this crap into your body, none of it works. None of it really makes you feel any better about your life, does it? You want to do that, you take control. You comm your sister. Do that—actually _do what you want to happen_ , instead of all this sideways maneuvering to get what you want without having to commit, and I'm all over it—I'm all kindsa' onboard. But I'm not doin' it _for_ you any more. I'm not givin' you the easy way out."

He stood, the action swirling the blue-black spice smoke which sat in the air between them into lazy furls as he took the secure comlink from his pocket to place it on the desk beside the lightsaber.

Then he turned and walked slowly to the door as Luke stared resolutely ahead, refusing to look at it.

The door hissed back to let a slice of bright light from the corridor beyond flood into the darkness and cut a line through the smoke as Han paused. "Either you put the damn spice stick out and actually try to live your own life…or you may as well just get it the hell over with and smoke yourself to death tonight."

.

.

The room fell to darkness as Han walked away, only cold starlight filtering in through the viewport as Luke stared without seeing, Han's words ringing in his ears.

Alone, he shook his head slowly… Damn him. Damn him, for stripping it all back until only the truth was left, raw and bleeding. He lifted one hand to rub at his temples, eyes closing, tired and muzzy from spice. Han had no idea—he had no idea what he was asking Luke to do…

And somewhere… somewhere in the distance, a muted sound slowly filtered through his mired thoughts, opening his eyes. On the desk, the comlink Han had abandoned flashed a small blue light as it pipped quietly for attention, signaling an incoming comm.

Luke stared for a long time, some part of him hoping the decision would be made for him and the comlink would fall silent…because he knew who it was. Knew that only one person had the call-code.

Yet somehow, finally, he reached out his hand and brought the comlink close, thumbing it on, his voice clipped and flat. "He's not here."

The silence stretched for long seconds, in which Luke closed his eyes again, letting out a long, low sigh. He shouldn't have picked it up. Shouldn't have answered.

Her voice was exactly as he remembered it—that same mix of hope and strength.

"….Luke? Luke, is that you?"

"You have amazing timing." It was an asinine thing to say.

Leia's confusion was evident in her next words. "..Are you okay? Something happened, didn't it—a few hours ago. Is Han okay?"

"He's fine. Causing havoc, as usual." Why was he answering her?

"I think that may be a case of glass houses and stones." That warmth in her voice. It made her sound both sincere and wry. It made him feel jaded and tired.

"Yeah, I'm not sure which was which today."

"Was…that what happened? Were you and Han arguing?"

"No." Luke paused, shaking his head in self-retribution as he allowed himself to get pulled in. "I was with Palpatine."

"What did you do? The Force—"

He interrupted quickly, a thought occurring as he remembered the reason for his anger. "Did you…when I was onboard the Rebel ship there, did your people ever take blood samples?"

There was silence, so Luke pressed on. "It doesn't matter—doesn't matter if you did, I don't care. But…you tested them, right? You ran them through your systems, there."

"Yes. They were tested against mine to…to make sure."

"Did you test the mitochondria for repetitions?"

"…A clone?" Bewilderment was evident in her voice. "We _are_ natural twins. Ben said—"

"I know, I know that. But did you do the test on my blood sample?"

"…Mon Mothma ordered the tests, and I think they would have been pretty exhaustive. If something like that had come up, I'd know about it by now. Why are you asking?"

"Check for me."

"Luke—"

"Just…check for me. Please."

"…Okay. Luke…can you tell me what's wrong? Something happened, didn't it?"

He looked to the spice stick still held so casually in his other hand, its curl of inky smoke settling slowly out into a translucent blue-black haze as it rose, Han's words ringing inside his head. ' _You don't_ _like_ _this life. You don't want it. You don't want anything to do with it. So you keep on punishing yourself for it … Just to see how hard you'll fall this time.'_

Stupid; stupid, if he did this. Palpatine would know it was him.

' _You keep on punishing yourself … Just to see how hard you'll fall this time.'_

"Luke…?" Leia's voice from the comlink was tentative, wanting only to help.

Despite everything he'd done. Despite his every effort to push her back—all of which were irrelevant, really, because she'd know the truth. His own words to Han, spoken quietly but earnestly, came back to him: _'I have no argument with Leia—not really. I'll protect her, if I can.'_

"Do you think…" He sighed, to get some air into his lungs; spice always made it so hard to breathe. "If things had been different…"

He could almost hear her smile. "We can make things different, as of now."

' _No matter how far you run, you just take it all with you.'_

His lip twitched up a fraction as he unthinkingly brought the spice stick to it, taking a final, long pull. "You make it sound so easy."

"It won't be. But it'll be worth it."

He laughed silently, a trickle of spice smoke coiling free… then his face fell. "You know, I was always taught that loyalty to your Master came above everything else."

"And you were," She said it gravely, not making light of his sudden change of subject. "But this isn't him."

Did she know already, the thoughts that had whispered to him in the dead of night?

' _Would you die for me?'_ Palpatine's words long years ago, as he'd held Luke's face cupped in his hands. _'There, child…there is your true worth.'_

 _Your true worth_. His entire life, Palpatine had taken everything else from him—everything. The only thing he'd kept, the only thing that had ever been acknowledged, had been that: loyalty, utter and absolute. What else had he been left with, to build his own sense of self on, lashed together with twisted integrity and warped, misplaced pride.

' _You don't betray your own Master—ever.'  
'There, child…there is your true worth.'_

His own sense of identity had been threaded through and knotted indelibly within his loyalty to his Master. He knew that—knew the tricks that Palpatine played, the persuasions and manipulations with which he'd bound a child of seven, ten, twelve, too young to see the strings. And it didn't make any difference that he saw them now. Now was too late; they were part of him. More—they held him together.

' _You don't betray your own Master.'_

It was the code he'd grown up with, the mantra he'd lived his life by. It was what he held to for his own sanity.

' _All or nothing—it's who you are. It's what you had to do, to survive here.'_

It was all he'd ever had…and so he'd made it enough. Enough to scratch a life from—to scrape some kind of sense and build some notion of self from, and take pride in. He could have held to it for a lifetime—for Palpatine's lifetime. He could have dug deep and hunkered down and put everything else aside, and held to it. He _had_ done that; had held to his word, his mantra, to the end.

Only the end wasn't the end, any more.

The end had distorted and distended, stretching out into infinity. And… it wasn't enough any more, to live his life by someone else's concept of what he should be.

It wasn't enough.

All those hours, days, months, years. Lessons ground in so deep that they festered at the very core of him…they'd been enough to hold him loyal to this one formidable, unassailable man, he knew that.

But that was it. That was all. Not a string of endless pledges to endless Masters, time and time again.

And it made no difference if he told Leia about Rhen Var; not really. It changed nothing. Palpatine would simply build another cloning facility. Create more clones, ad infinitum. It made no difference, if he told her…

But it was a way to be heard by the one man with whom he could never find the words. The one man who would not listen to anything or anyone. Perhaps that was what it always had been.

"Luke…?"

That voice again, so open. How could she convey so much in a single word—how could she be willing to? It was bravery on a scale that Luke couldn't fathom.

His claim to Han played again in his mind: _'Fire in the Forest—that's what Palpatine said Sith are; they burn everything around them.'_

' _People die around me.'_ His warning to Leia—though it could easily have been to himself. A reminder, as if he needed one.

His vow to Han, of Leia: _'I'll protect her, if I can.'_

He let out a soft breath. "You need to promise me something—your word, right now?

"..Why?"

"I'm guessing that Han's already told you we're en-route somewhere. If I tell you where, if I tell you why, I want your word that you won't get personally involved. You'll hand the information over and let your Rebellion deal with it."

"You're onboard the _Executor_ , aren't you? Where are you going?"

' _I'll protect her, if I can.'_

"He wants the Rebels to know where he'll be—that's the only reason that he'd play it this way. But he wants you to think that he'll be onboard the _Executor;_ that this will be the only ship. He wants to draw you out. That's why I want your word that you'll not get involved personally."

"I can't ju—"

"Then we're done talking." There was a long pause, and Luke shook his head, unseen. "Say it, now, because already I'm starting to think I shouldn't do this."

"Alright," she said quickly. "I give you my word."

"No involvement."

"None."

 _Last chance to back out…_

"Can you get a task force together, right now?"

"What?"

"A task force—how soon can you get a task force to the Tobali system?

"Where in the system?"

' _You don't betray your Master—ever.'  
'You forced my hand. You pushed and pushed, to breaking point. You always do.'  
'You broke incorrectly.'  
'You wanted a reaction—you got one.'_

Palpatine had specifically summoned Han to the meeting onboard the Death Star two days earlier. Then when Luke hadn't complied, he'd waited until Han was present to loose that last volley; to say aloud, in front of Han, when the _Executor_ was launching.

But he hadn't said anything about the Death Star.

That was the play.

' _I had a good teacher—one of the best.'_

He didn't know the specifics, but _that_ was the play Luke had been searching and scratching and scouring for, the play for which Palpatine had been willing to let all lesser offences drop since Luke's return, in order to achieve.

Luke had said it once before, to Han; Palpatine didn't repeat himself. Ever. So why then? Why that? He'd already told Luke where the task force was headed when they were alone, just minutes before. Why repeat it when Han was present? Why leave Han alive at all?

Unless he wanted Han to pass information back to the Rebellion. Wanted to use that against Luke, as he twisted every damn thing back on itself, every motive and meaning, until he could wring something ruinous from it. Everything, everyone—even Luke.

' _He changes you, you know.'_ Mara's words. She'd seen it, even then.

He shook his head minutely; he _was_ loyal to the man who had raised him—but he wasn't blind. And he wasn't playing these games. Not any more. He'd stay…but he wouldn't be used. He wouldn't be manipulated.

' _I had a good teacher—one of the best.'  
'Yeah, but he charged a hell of a price for the lessons.'_

For a second, for a brief moment, it was almost funny. Almost fitting. Because it was true; Palpatine had charged a hell of a price for every single lesson he'd taught.

A cogent, spice-charged memory lit of Luke's first meeting with his Master, as a boy of seven hauled up by this unknown, dark-cloaked man to stand on the narrow handrail of a balcony a hundred stories high, the wind whipping at him in the darkness—  
 _'Are you afraid? Stand up, child, I won't let you go.'  
_ Even as the dark man had spoken, the hands which had supported Luke had slackened completely, leaving him precariously balanced, arms outstretched over the terrifying drop.  
Seven years old, a shoe already lost, leg grazed raw, his wrist bloody where the dark man's nails had dug into his flesh, he'd stood alone on the narrow ledge. No support, no safety…completely alone.  
He remembered edging in slow, deliberate movements to the high wall at the balcony's end. Remembered grasping it like a lifeline, fingertips scrabbling and scraping as his nails broke, barely balanced enough to scramble to the safety of solid ground, his heart pounding, adrenaline burning his throat. _  
'You let me go. You said you wouldn't, and you did.'  
'I lied.' _There'd been such delight in the dark man's words, fed by a child's breathless disillusionment _. 'That is my first lesson to you, and the only one that I will ever give you for free: I cannot be trusted, child. Nobody can. Ever.'_

Another memory, of sitting in near-darkness at the very top of the Imperial Palace almost ten years later, on one of the leaded roof's stone rain headers which cantilevered out over a deadly drop. It had become second nature by then, this life on the very precipice. The one place that felt…normal. So he'd gone there to think whilst he'd stared at a single vial of blood, given to him by a man he'd been taught to hate—a Jedi. The only one who'd told him the truth about his father.

His entire life, one way or another, he'd been alone out on that ledge with the wind whipping at him. An impossible balancing act, with a lethal drop just waiting…

' _I had a good teacher—one of the best.'  
'Yeah, but he charged a hell of a price for the lessons.'_

…and now it was Luke's turn.

His brittle smile melted at the knowledge that, like every moment of dark amusement, it was at his own expense and it was very, very brief. Because in the final analysis, the joke was still on Luke. Palpatine would know it was him.

' _You don't like this life. You don't want it. You don't want anything to do with it. So you keep on punishing yourself for it.'_

A hundred reasons—a hundred rationalizations for one single act; because in truth he'd known the moment he'd picked up the comlink what he would do…

"… Palpatine is taking the Death Star and the _Executor_ over the border into Rebel-held territory, to retrieve something very important to him."

He waited a moment whilst she absorbed that, releasing the send toggle on the comlink to hit it against his own head, eyes closed.

"When?" It was all she could say, really.

He brought the comlink back to his lips, voice flat. "We're already on our way. We'll arrive at our destination planet at twenty-one-hundred tomorrow, Coruscant time. Both are undermanned—he's still putting his Empire back together—but you still can't fight them head-on. That means you have less than a day to get there before he does, and destroy it."

"Destroy what?"

"Ghost Fleet won't be with us, because he's trying to retrieve something quietly. But the Death Star will—and he'll be onboard. That's why you personally can't be."

"What's he trying to retrieve?"

' _One should keep one's friends close…and one's enemies closer.'  
'And which am I?'  
'Only you know that, child.'  
_Except that he didn't. Even now, he didn't know.

"Nothing's changed." He felt some driving need to say it out loud. "I'm not helping you to overthrow him. It's the clones that I'm handing over, understand? Just...no-one should have that much power. That much power over life and death."

It was too late to validate, least of all to her. But the person he wanted to hear would never listen to words alone. _  
_' _You are weak, you are impulsive, and you are volatile.'_

' _You know me. Impulsive.'_ Those same words that Palpatine had thrown in his face, he'd spoken to Mara as an evasion. And she'd seen clean through them, as she always did.  
' _Impulsive? No. You seem it at first, but you generally have a reason for the things you do. Even the stupid ones.'_

' _You had such faith once, child.'  
_ ' _You bled it dry.'_

He let out a soft, low sigh, then shook his head… "The facility that holds Palpatine's remaining clones is inside an Imperial storehouse on Rhen Var, at seventy-six degrees southern latitude, close to the pole."

' _Always the disappointment…'_

"That's what they're crossing the border for? His clones are in the Rim Territories?" Leia's voice had lifted in shock and excitement. "Of course they are! He'd keep them as far from Coruscant as he possibly could. He wouldn't know the entire sector would rise up, that the Empire would fracture so quickly!"

"An aerial bombardment won't work." Luke said the words impassively; bare facts, devoid of emotion. "It's too far underground, in the bedrock of a mountain range. You'll need to send people in, to lay charges. They won't be able to gain access to the actual chamber, so they need to lay enough internal charges to collapse the storehouse down on itself entirely. They need to incinerate it—destroy everything—there are genetic samples in there, as well."

"Oh Luke, you've done the right thing…you have! I'm proud of you—I'm so proud."

' _Always the disappointment.'_

"Don't be. It was for my reasons, not yours. Just remember your promise; no involvement."

He released the talk key, allowing the line to cut without saying any more—what else was there to say?

Alone, he stared at the comlink, some distant, logical part of his mind already processing the most reliable method to destroy it irrevocably. His hand was shaking. A slow breath in and then out did nothing to loosen the unyielding tension about his ribcage, or get air into his lungs to stop his head spinning and thoughts rushing.

Whatever long game Palpatine had been playing in letting Han overhear the plan to launch without revealing the strength of the fleet bound there, Luke had headed it off in being the one who had told all, rather than the carefully selected fragments which Han could pass on.

Reckless…insane—suicidal? Because if the Rebels blew the storehouse, Palpatine would realize soon enough that it was Luke who had told them; practically no-one else had all those details. Had that been Palpatine's strategy—to link the identifiable leaks to specific facts that Han would have known, proving his guilt? Or had it been a longer game, somehow—another ploy entirely?

Whatever snare Palpatine had intended to spring, it was now null and void. Heading it off would probably cause more harm to Luke personally than letting it run to term, but that wasn't the point.

Point was, he wouldn't be played, any more. Not even by Palpatine.

He paused a moment, reflecting… No; the problem was, if he'd spotted the game this easily…was there a whole other level, yet to play out?

.

.

.

.

.

"We can't get a strike-team there in time," General Koehler said, shaking his head gravely.

They were gathered around the table-height circular holo-emitter in the otherwise empty and darkened War Room onboard _Home One_ , all eyes to the hologram of Rhen Var, and the opportunity it represented, thanks to Luke's information.

"Then we adapt our response," Madine said firmly, not looking away from the large hologram of the Galidraan system, where Rhen Var glowed red. "We make it work."

This was Mon Mothma's inner circle; the most capable, the most trusted. Madine, the ex-Imperial tactician, Koehler, a career soldier who had risen to General through the ranks of the Alliance, Ackbar, the Mon Cal Admiral of the Fleet, Commander Tennler, head of Intel, who always saw the larger picture—

And Leia, stood Close to Mon herself, her thoughts racing to make this rare burst of vital Intel count. "Luke said that the Imperial ships would arrive by twenty-one-hundred." She repeated his name again—had played back the audio from her comlink several times already, purportedly for the information to be dissected, but also intending to subtly set into everyone's heads that despite the method by which he'd departed, Luke Antilles was a sympathizer. A collaborator, not a target.

"Just the two craft?" Tennler checked.

Madine shook his head, voice dry. "I really don't think they need any more."

"I don't think you can _get_ any more massed firepower than that," Ackbar underlined, long, webbed fingers flicking outwards towards the holo, which bore a wireframe representation of the _Executor_ and the new Death Star placed in close orbit around Rhen Var.

"We're looking at this wrong." Madine folded his arms, lips pursing to a thin line beneath that always immaculately-trimmed beard. "We're allowing ourselves to be limited by a small target that's been designated _for_ us; get in, destroy, and get out."

Mon looked to her strategist through the glowing holo. "What should we be looking at?"

He didn't flinch. "Forget the clones. When's the next time we'll have an opportunity to pin down Palpatine himself?"

The room fell to silence as everyone re-evaluated, but Madine pushed on, strategist that he was.

"We'll have the highest value target of the Empire actually inside Rebel borders. That won't happen again. Even if there's an imminent campaign planned against us, it'll be on the Empire's terms. Palpatine won't be present. And every single day we delay in the mean-time, he's pulling his Empire and his assets back together under a single rule. Coruscant is a fortress—the entire Core systems are. We _will not_ get this chance again."

"If we're talking about fortresses, I think the new Death Star is pretty high up there," Tennler said warily.

"But the Death Star will be over Rebel borders," Madine emphasized, the only one to ever refer to the Alliance on such terms; a slip of his Imperial past. "And if we can keep it there for even a short amount of time, it _will_ be vulnerable."

"To what?"

It was a reasonable point, Leia had to admit; they had nothing of even close to equal firepower. Even _Home One_ was a fraction of the _Executor's_ size.

"An incursion task force," General Koehler said slowly in dawning realization, seeing the potential.

"Did Antilles confirm which ship Palpatine will be on?" Madine asked, turning back to Leia, who shook her head.

"Not specifically, no."

"Can you get back in contact with him?"

"No. I've tried. Contact with both himself and Solo was only through a single comlink, and the line has been terminated. It's off the grid entirely."

Tennler moved slightly, uneasy. "Do we know if they're okay?"

"I…think so," Leia said, glancing to Mon Mothma. "If something were to happen to Luke Antilles, I think I'd sense it—and if something was wrong with Han, I think I'd know through Luke's reaction."

Aside from Han, Mon remained the only person in the Alliance who knew the truth about Leia and her brother—and the one who had asked her to keep the fact hidden, for the sake of greater stability. A brief spark of hope ignited in Leia's already-crowded thoughts; that her brother's actions tonight had perhaps begun to pave the way for the truth to become public. To be the twin sister of a known Sith was dangerous territory. But to be the twin sister of a Rebel collaborator who had helped bring Palpatine's Empire down…that was another thing entirely, to even the most jaded eyes.

She lifted her datapad and keyed to play the recording of his voice again, the clip carefully chosen to withhold the hesitation he'd voiced, underlining only his commitment.

"… _Palpatine is taking the Death Star and the Executor over the border into Rebel-held territory, to retrieve something very important to him."  
"When?"  
"We're already on our way. We'll arrive at our destination planet at twenty-one-hundred tomorrow, Coruscant time. Both are undermanned—he's still putting his Empire back together—but you can't fight them head-on. That means you have less than a day to get there before he does, and destroy it."  
"Destroy what?"  
"Ghost Fleet won't be with us, because he's trying to retrieve it quietly. But the Death Star will—and he'll be onboard. That's why you personally can't be."  
"What's he trying to retrieve?" _

She pressed to the screen to halt it there, knowing the wording exactly and skipping his justification that nothing had changed; that his loyalties lay where they always had.

"Sounds as if Palpatine's on the Death Star itself," Tennler said. "Which makes sense against the intel that Solo provided earlier."

"It's the obvious choice, on his part," Madine nodded. "We have no intel on it this time around, save to know it's substantially bigger. I doubt they'd make the same error twice, given the loss of the original. He clearly has faith in its augmented fortification."

"So you want us to bring down a newly-upgraded planet-killer, with a Super Star Destroyer escort thrown in, for good measure?" Tennler disparaged.

"Antilles said it himself; they're undermanned. They can't possibly crew these things with anything like the numbers that a Super Star Destroyer and a Death Star need."

"They're confident enough to come over Rebel borders."

"Moving a super-structure and manning it in battle are two different things. We have time-tested technology and experienced crews. They have neither of those—not in the structures they're bringing over border."

"And what do you suggest?" Mon invited, not allowing the debate to deteriorate into argument.

Madine straightened a fraction. "We attack on two fronts. Make a big gesture—a capital-ship attack." He spoke slowly, still sounding out his plan in his own mind. "We come in hot with our heaviest destroyers, everything we can muster, all guns blazing. Open fire, everything we can throw at them, make a big statement that everyone looks at…"

"And we send in a small team, in the chaos," Koehler nodded. "We get a task force onto the Death Star."

"We'd be better to concentrate all firepower on the _Executor_ ," Ackbar said thoughtfully, tapping the console before him to enlarge the Super Star Destroyer and _Home One_ , manipulating the image to display his thoughts. "Use its size to our advantage. If we maintain a staggered line with three MC 80 destroyers, but work to keep the Super Star Destroyer between ourselves and the Death Star at all times, we can use it as a shield from the Death Star's firepower. MC 80's have cannons across all surfaces, so we've had success in the past utilizing a central-axis roll to deliver staggered-charge firepower on a single enemy quarter, whilst dispersing their return firepower across multiple shields as the battle-cruiser rotates, giving the shields time to recharge and tile to cover breaches, if necessary. If we're willing to risk our three heaviest capital ships, then combined may be able to do some real damage."

"We don't have three MC 80's at full operation power at the moment," Ackbar said,, mobile lower lip turning upward.

"We have the _Ardent_ the _Orthavan_ —" Madine paused, "and _Home One_."

Ackbar's huge eyes swiveled to Mothma, whose eyes remained on the hologram. It was left to Tennler to speak out. "I don't like _Home One_ going into pitch battle."

"It's an MC 80 Battle Cruiser," Madine said levelly. "If we don't use it, then we may as well not crew and bankroll it. It's either an asset or a drain of resources. Two MC 80's won't hold out against a Super Star Destroyer. Three just might."

"And if the _Executor_ jumps to lightspeed and leaves us to face off against the Death Star?" Tennler pushed.

"Then we're all compromised," Madine admitted. "We'd have to do the same, and hope that our team were onboard the Death Star at that point."

"The _Executor_ would stay, because it's there to retrieve the clones," Leia reasoned. "It'd be obvious that we know the clones are there, and the Death Star won't be able to make as close an orbit to Rhen Var as a Super Star Destroyer. Its mass would induce seismic activity on Rhen Var's surface. The obvious choice is to bring the _Executor_ as close to the planet as possible, to minimize the amount of time that the clones are vulnerable in transit. And once they are in transit, with Rhen Var compromised the _Executor_ has to wait until the clone transports are safely stowed. It can't leave."

"That's our window of opportunity—that's our time-frame." Nodding, Madine reached out to the console before him to zoom out and reposition the Death Star and the _Executor_ in relation to each other, the planet, and the co-ordinates of the storehouse. "They'll need smaller retrieval vessels to land, whilst the _Executor_ maintains a geostationary orbit over Rhen Var's pole, as Antilles said. He said the storehouse was at seventy-two degrees latitude. Chances are that the Death Star will hold the same orbit, but much further out. That gives us a clearly defined theater for action."

"We have to take out the clones before they retrieve them," Leia's mind was racing as fast as her heart. "We _have to_ do that before the task force reaches Palpatine. If we don't, he'll simply transfer his consciousness to another clone on Rhen Var's surface—or worse, onboard the _Executor_ , if they've retrieved them."

"Are we _sure_ he's capable of that," Madine pushed.

It was a big thing, Leia knew, to ask someone who had no contact with the Force to accept Palpatine's return just once, let alone his ability to do so ad-infinitum. Even she'd balked. Even Luke had, and he was Sith.

More, he'd recoiled from the concept itself.

But she nodded now, utterly sure. "He can do it—that's how he came back. If he has a clone, he _will_ do it again."

"So we need two groups," Mon Mothma said, taking the discussion swiftly forward. "One to go after the clones on Rhen Var's surface, the other to go after the…the primary blueprint."

"How do we know where the _blueprint_ team should head for?" Tennler asked. "The Death Star's a pretty big target."

"I could find him," Leia said confidently. "It would have to be me, anyway. You need a Jedi to counter a Sith, if this has any chance of succeeding."

"I'm…uncomfortable with sending the last Jedi into pitch conflict." Mon said, apprehension tainting her sense.

Leia looked to her. "I can do this. No-one even knows what he looks like. I don't need to. It has to be me."

"We'll back you up with a strong team," Madine said, glancing to Tennler. "The absolute best."

Tennler pursed his lips in thought, bringing his datapad up. "We have Delta Group Commandos onboard right now—they'll punch through. We can back you up during crossing with Rogue Group, using Green and Gold squadrons to keep the attention centered on the battle around the _Executor_. If we make it look like the Death Star's presence has taken us by surprise—that we'd prepared for a battle with the _Executor_ alone—then they'll believe the Death Star that much safer."

"Do we have any technicians onboard who can handle Imperial security once we're inside the Death Star?" Leia asked. "We'll get further faster if we can slice false access and bypass security quietly for as long as possible. The moment we need to start fighting our way through, they'll know we're there and throw everything at us."

"Our records show we have two techs onboard with practical experience of Imperial security tech, right now," Tennler said, scrolling through the personnel files as he called them to his datapad. "Elise Lowe and Mica Tasseca, both working on flight crews."

"I don't know Lowe," Leia said, frowning. "I've spoken to Mica Tasseca a few times. She struck me as capable, pretty bombproof under pressure."

"Tasseca it is," Tennler said with a nod, transferring her file over to the active list with a flick of his hand.

For a second Leia hesitated… but Madine was pushing forward, knowing that time was short.

"We have a few civilian freighters in the bays. We'll get one to the system as soon as possible to watch and report, and co-ordinate our arrival around its comms," Madine was thinking on his feet. "We can put the clone task force onboard too, since they need to move before the infiltration team anyway…"

"The _Falcon_!" Leia said quickly. Madine glanced to her, eyebrows raising as she reined in her outburst. "I just…the clone team can take the _Millennium Falcon_ ," Leia repeated, somewhat quieter.

Madine nodded, glancing down. "The _Millennium_ …?"

" _Falcon_. It's…it's Luke Antilles' freighter." It still felt odd to say that name as if it were real. As if she had no connection. She blinked, bringing her thoughts to the moment. "If he sees it over Rhen Var, he'll know it's us. It may buy our people some leeway."

" _Millennium Falcon_ it is, then. We can put the 102nd Recon onboard—they have explosives specialists, so they can deal with the planet-side storehouse facility before you board the Death Star. The finer details, we'll have to form whilst we're en-route; deadlines are tight."

He glanced to Mon Mothma for confirmation; at the last, the decision would be hers.

She looked from the hologram to Leia, her expression tense, and Leia straightened a fraction and lifted her chin, trying to convey that they could do this. That she wasn't a child any more; it was time to take on the mantle Obi-Wan had trained her for.

Mon paused…then nodded once. "As of now, this mission is green-light. Contact the _Orthavan_ and the _Ardent_ , and provide co-ordinates. Information is to be disseminated strictly by Command-level clearance. Calculate for the lightspeed jump and assemble specialist units. We'll make one short drop from lightspeed en-route to correlate and update, and finalize all plans. Meanwhile we have a lot of work to do."

Everyone straightened, spurred on by the tone of her voice, their minds already centering on the separate elements necessary to make the greater plan work. Madine hesitated, turning back to Mon.

"Mission name?"

Mon smiled, sharp eyes bright. "… Mission _Blueprint_."

.

.

Walking to _Home One's_ main hangar, Leia tried again to contact Han or Luke through the comlink frequency they'd provided…and again, the transmission was cancelled, playing out a terminated frequency tone.

In truth part of her was relieved. She didn't want to drop Han in the middle of this, forced into close contact with Palpatine whilst trying to withhold secrets. But she had wanted to maybe talk through what Luke's reaction might be, to the changing plan. Because it hadn't failed to occur to her which of Luke's words she had skipped during the meeting, whilst replaying his comm message out loud so many times.

' _It's the clones that I'm handing over, understand?'_

It was that which she'd entered the meeting championing. Now, suddenly, it had become a far bigger plan, and she knew it. Now it was Palpatine. And now she was personally involved—the very thing she'd given her word not to be.

She trusted Luke—she did; she so very _wanted_ to… But in truth, some small part of her was genuinely afraid of what her brother might do, confronted with all this in the heat of the moment.

.

.

.

.

.

Mara watched from her post in the tech bay as activity ramped up in the _Ardent's_ main hangar, with Rogue, Gold and Green Flight Groups assembling in loose knots to talk quietly amongst themselves. Separate units were being established, each disappearing into designated mission briefing halls again and again throughout the morning, and coming out with grim faces. More importantly, running off their port bow like an immense space-borne whale for almost three hours now, was _Home One_ —the flagship of the Rebel fleet.

She needed information. And she needed to ask someone pretty high up the ladder, to get anything useful.

Across the hangar, a battered civilian YT-Class freighter whined as it powered up on pre-flight, with provisions and—more importantly—armament and explosives crates being loaded onboard by serious-faced beings with the striding, no-nonsense gaits of habitual soldiers.

Just visible through the crowd, the Jedi Leia Skywalker was grinning as she spoke to a huge Wookiee. They hugged, the Wookiee's brawny, hirsute arms engulfing the smaller women, his howl carrying clear across the bay…then he was gone, crouching beneath the limited headroom of the freighter's lowered ramp, and visible a moment later in the cockpit, pulling on headphones.

Mara scowled, wishing she'd been close enough to hear the details, when the Jedi glanced about and made direct eye contact with her, setting forward.

Immediately Mara turned and picked up a random avionics loop, walking back to the fighter she'd been working on as the Jedi closed; be careful what you wished for.

"Mica?" Leia Skywalker crouched to step under the nose of the X-wing, tense but smiling.

Mara straightened, meeting her eye without evasion. "Yeah?"

"I wanted to speak to you. I remember your mentioning once that you had experience working with Imperial tech on Teyr."

Mara frowned, instantly wondering if whatever was going down was part of some larger plan in which, given her supplied backstory, her part had always been anticipated. That she wouldn't have been told specifics made perfect sense—in fact it was basic infiltration tactics; you don't drop an agent down alone in enemy territory with a single jot more information than they need.

Her objective had been updated twice recently, as circumstances around her had changed; first when the Rebels had lost the Imperial Star Destroyer that Luke had retaken, when she'd been ordered to ensure that she remained close to the Rebel Jedi, and again just two days ago with the fact that a Rebel strike may be imminent, and if so she must make all efforts to be part of whichever unit Leia Skywalker led. That had been it, the messages always typically short to avoid tracing.

Her original standing order had been to avoid the Jedi at any cost since the beginning of this assignment, but she'd known all along that this couldn't be a simple intel mission—not for her. Palpatine didn't waste his resources. Given the original brief though, she hadn't expected it to narrow to this. Still, she was accustomed to adaptation and operating under her own cognizance, and she had faith in her master. So she nodded slowly, reluctant to commit herself without more information.

"Some, yes. What kind of tech?"

"Security," the Jedi said, face grave. "We have…a catastrophic situation that might just turn into the biggest opportunity we've had since…" She laughed mirthlessly, glancing down. "Well, since the last time we brought down Palpatine."

"Palpatine?" It took all of Mara's will not to react too overtly. "What do you mean?"

The Jedi didn't elucidate, instead pushing forward. "I know that you're not a soldier, but someone with experience working Imperial security software would be invaluable right now, to get us where we need to be quickly and quietly, under the radar. We need someone who can slice security-rated door systems on a military installation. Could you do that?"

The assault—this was the assault! Mara's uncertainty must have leaked through if only a little, because the Jedi took a step closer.

"Nobody's going to make you come, of course. But you'd be part of a veteran team, and the other soldiers would make a point of looking after you, and—" Here she leaned in, smiling—"I always got the distinct feeling that you could handle yourself in a fight."

Mara forced a smile. "I…guess I could do the tech, yeah. Do you have more information—I'll need to know what to take. Are we talking physical incuts into circuitry door by door, or system-wide code…" She broke off, wary of sounding a little too experienced in her pursuit of specific intel that she could relay back to her master.

Leia Skywalker shook her head, glancing about the hangar. "We'll have a box of relevant tech made up for you, ready to go."

"If I knew now, I might be able to—"

"I'm afraid we don't have time," Leia said, cutting her off. "We're leaving in less than an hour. We need to launch ahead of the main attack, to be in position when it arrives, and you'll have to remain with Delta Commando Group up until then. The hangar doors are being closed—essential personnel only—and everyone in here is on comms blackout. I can give you more information in-flight."

Mara blinked at the rush of events, uncertain whether to pull out somehow… But her best position to remain in the loop and react to the changing situation would undoubtedly be with the task force.

So she nodded again, this time with more certainty. "I can do it. I can get you in."

Leia Skywalker paused, staring, her eyes searching Mara's with uncomfortable intensity. Mara lifted her chin a fraction, every possible shield in place against the close scrutiny, reciting to herself the assurances that her master had often quoted of the abilities of their kind to move unseen amongst the very best of the Jedi for generations.

She had faith in her teachings—and, more importantly, her teacher….

With a rasping howl of power the old YT-Class freighter rose into the air behind them, taking the Jedi's attention as she turned to watch it level off in lopsided bursts then glide for the main entrance, its raw power ungainly in the confines of the hangar. Once beyond the atmospheric shields it gained speed rapidly, accelerating smoothly in a burst of bright backwash, a distant spot in seconds.

Mara's eyes followed the Jedi's to watch the battered freighter as it left the bay, trying to figure its mission. They'd hauled enough explosives onboard to blow up a fair-sized frigate, but Palpatine would surely be onboard either the Death Star or the _Executor_ , neither of which could be brought down by some beaten-up old freighter, even loaded with explosives. Still…

"Where's it going?" she murmured aloud.

"Straight into trouble," Leia replied quietly, eyes still on the distant speck. "And I swear if it gets one scratch, I'll never hear the last of it."

.

.

.

.

.

In the close confines of the Imperial shuttle, one of the many which had been onboard the ISD _Relentless_ when the Rebels had first captured it, but absent when Antilles had reclaimed it for the Empire—and also one of the many whose ID's and call-signs Mara had diligently noted and forwarded back to the Empire as being in Rebel hands—Mara stared surreptitiously at the Jedi Leia Skywalker, who stood to the head of the cramped bay talking with Kegg, the commander of Delta Group commandoes. Tall and slim, with thick brows over dark skin and eyes, he pursed his lips as he nodded, body weight tilted back to lean against one of the shuttle's wall-mounted acceleration cushions which coincidentally also brought him low enough to look the slight Jedi in the eye. Occasionally he glanced along his commandoes with an appraising eye, his gaze coming to rest more than once on Mara.

Her own mind was racing through the limited information at hand as she stared, trying to read Kegg's lips as he spoke quietly, his hands gesturing this way and that as he and Skywalker refined the finer elements of their plan.

She had no idea where they were presently headed, and the small cockpit whose door she'd purposely sat right next to in the hope of glimpsing anything on the console, remained closed through the lightspeed jump. It was a long jump, though—they'd been over three hours already, which was a fair haul in a shuttle like this. Normally you'd get close to the target in a capital ship, then complete the jump in something smaller, if necessary. A long jump like this was uncomfortable, slow and power-hungry, by comparison.

Which meant that they were going somewhere where they couldn't risk a Rebel capital ship being seen or even picked up on long-range scans…inside Imperial space, almost certainly. A glance about the cabin certainly lent credence to that; the Rebel commandos about her all fidgeted uncomfortably in white stormtrooper armor, with Leia, Kegg and a few others wearing the dark olive side-fastening uniforms of low-level Imperial officers. Mara had been given a black Imperial tech's all-in-one and a becked cap, her promised box of tools giving little away that she didn't already know, when she'd rifled through it.

But some things about her real mission were dropping into place. Like the fact that she must be here to stop Leia Skywalker. She had to be—that was the only explanation for the recent order to gain herself a place in whichever unit the Jedi led. It was certainly the only explanation for her lightsaber training before the mission had begun. At the time she'd thought it a last resort; Palpatine's attempt to ensure that if she was confronted by the Jedi, then she would at least have some chance to retaliate and escape. Now…now, with the order to avoid the woman at all costs not simply rescinded but actually reversed, Mara was beginning to get an inkling of her intended role when she'd been sent to bury herself among the Rebels.

It had been a long assignment—but then it would have to be, to gain enough trust to get to where she was now. An invisible sleeper agent who had patiently waited out the typical period of undeclared wariness, to become just another face in the crowd. An anonymous, low-level nobody…until that one day when magically, she was precisely the person they needed. The perfect skill-set to ensure their mission's success.

The perfect opportunity to sabotage it.

And in doing so, guarantee that the Jedi whom Palpatine had sought for so long would be within his reach. More, perhaps—to be the one who ensured that the threat which the last Jedi represented to her master was nullified. Permanently.

What exactly he had used as the lure to draw her out, Mara didn't know—though she'd see soon enough, it seemed.

She was less sure about the particulars; whether she was expected to deliver the Jedi to her master by any means, or to stop her directly before that, if necessary. Mara simply had no idea. And no way to find out. Normally if she were even close to Palpatine she would use the Force to seek out mental contact, or simply make herself visible through it, so that he could make his wishes known. But this entire mission would be conducted just paces away from a Jedi Knight, and whilst Mara's training from her Sith Master meant that she could effectively conceal her ability as long as she held it dormant, she was well aware that she was too close to risk even a moment's deliberate contact, to get a sense of the larger picture.

But she had faith in her master. If he'd had the foresight to place her exactly where he needed her months in advance, then he would have secured finer plans for the event itself—all she had to do was wait and be ready.

Only now did Mara blink, as the thought occurred; would Luke be there? He'd returned to Palpatine, she knew that—with a stolen Rebel Star Destroyer as a peace offering, no less.

It was everything she'd wanted, his return. Everything she'd hoped. Well, not everything. She remembered again Palpatine's words, spoken with a quiet benevolence which had somehow still chilled her to the core: ' _And you, my pretty little soldier with the jewel eyes…I would hate to think that they too looked elsewhere, those precious gems. I would hate to see that head turn away.'_

The line had been drawn, by the one person whom Mara could never argue with or disobey. And even with the allowances which Palpatine had suggested might be possible in the future, what Mara had done to Luke at Palpatine's order… She'd committed the act that Luke reviled above all else: she had forced his hand. Had purposely burned his bridges with the Rebellion. At Palpatine's command, yes, but…she would have done it anyway, to bring him back to the fold.

Why exactly he'd turned to them in the first place she didn't know, nor why she felt it her responsibility to pull his fat out of the fire when he went nova like this without for one moment thinking of the consequences—

That wasn't true; she knew exactly why she'd done it. Her hand rose to the narrow thong still hidden about her neck, touching the worn and twisted ring which hung there.

Because of it—because of _them_ —she'd pulled him back to where he belonged, by any means.

Had she committed the one cardinal sin, in making that decision for him? The only unforgivable act. For a second she frowned, wondering if it had been Palpatine's intention that her actions would drive a wedge between them…

"How're you doing?"

Mara jolted in shock, glancing quickly up. Leia Skywalker had walked right up to her and was now staring down, head tilted. "You looked like you were deep in thought."

Mara shook her head, pulling her wits about her.

"Nervous?" The Jedi prompted, probably looking to lock down Mara's unease.

She was about to deny it, but since a fraction of her tumultuous thoughts had clearly leaked through her shields, Mara went for truthful redirection rather than outright denial. "Just…the unknown, I guess. I don't like being unprepared."

The woman sat beside her. "There'll be complications, of course. In offensives like this, there always are. But…" she paused, frowning slightly. "Well, we may have some inside help, we may not. And if he's not helping, then he'll be one major headache."

"He?"

Again the Jedi hesitated, head lowering, genuine uncertainty shadowing her face. "If we get the chance, we may need to extract somebody…and they may not want to come."

"A defector?"

"To be honest I have no idea what he'll do this time, given our primary brief… But that's my problem, not yours. Yours is to get us to our primary target. I kinda figure that if you can do that, he'll show up anyway."

Mara felt her ribcage tighten. "Who is he?"

"I can't tell you," the Jedi said apologetically. "All I can say is that he's one of Palpatine's closest allies." The woman tilted her head in a shoulder-shrug. "Sometimes he helps us, sometimes he hinders. We parted on less than favorable terms, but he's helped us since, so…"

She trailed off and Mara barely noticed, thoughts racing to connect scant facts. Had Luke actually helped the Rebels—both when he'd been among them, and more recently? It had to be Luke that the Jedi was speaking of now. Her head was shaking slowly, the enormity of that possibility overriding her awareness of just who sat beside her.

Or had it been that at all? Was she coming to flawed conclusions because she lacked all the facts? She'd asked Luke when she'd seen him onboard the Rebel ship what his real mission had been there—whether it had all been some elaborate cover-up to get him inside the Rebellion. He hadn't answered….

And what possible reason could he have to help the woman who had been instrumental in Palpatine's death? What potential motive could he have to do the same, now?

She remembered clearly looking Luke in the eye and asking that of him, when they'd first met: _'The day of the assassination, at Corsin Drydock. If you could have…?'  
_ He hadn't hesitated—not a single heartbeat. _'If I could have saved him—if I could have swapped my life for his—I would have. Gladly.'_

The spark of shared devotion, of mutual allegiance and loyalties—the deep and abiding sense of place and self—had bound them together in that moment. She and Luke had been brought up in the same way, by the same man. Raised to honor the same principles, the same codes and convictions. There was nothing to compare to that commitment. That connection.

He wouldn't be torn away—wouldn't falter even a fraction, for anything less. And there was nothing, not one damn thing that this woman had, which could compete. Nothing.

She wouldn't believe that of him—wouldn't be made to, by this woman. Mara felt her mouth harden to a slim line, resenting the Jedi for undermining her faith in Luke, no matter how unknowingly.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "Why are you telling me this?"

The Jedi straightened, looking surprised and then thoughtful. "I guess…I felt like we should talk. Sometimes…you get pulled in odd ways, by the Force. You learn to just relax into the flow; let it take you where it wills. Maybe I just needed to clear my own head, on this. Just…brace for impact."

"Brace?"

"It's a little like…like a forest fire. Sometimes it burns itself out, come and gone with nothing more than a brief flare of potential. Others it blazes like an inferno, wide and devastating, razing everything in its path."

"Are you talking about Palpatine?"

The woman shook her head. "No. Palpatine, I know. My—" She hesitated; corrected herself. "This man… he's… his battle can be with me, with Palpatine…with himself. He doesn't know himself until the moment's on him, doesn't know what he is. But he knows what he was meant to be."

"What if he was meant to be exactly where he is?"

The woman seemed to come out if her fugue of uncertainty, huge brown eyes locking onto Mara with a keen awareness that made her jolt.

"What if he's not?"

"He's…" Again that pang of queasy uncertainty was stirred, but Mara broke off, tempering her tone to a more general level. She couldn't talk about this—not to this woman. The risk was too great.

And anyway, wasn't it far more likely that Luke had always been part of Palpatine's plan to lure the Jedi in?

The obviousness of that—the relief at its logic—made Mara let out a brief, silent breath, setting her thoughts in order. She knew now; knew why she had to succeed in her mission to ensure that the threat this woman represented was nullified. Could see how the Jedi's subtle games might test even the staunchest of faiths, given time. She spoke of Luke, but her own potential for chaos and anarchy was patently obvious, after just a few minutes of speaking with her. For a second, she had made even Mara falter—made her question the loyalty of those around her.

No, she needed to stay focused on the mission; her mission. And that was to get this dangerous woman within her Master's reach.

So she licked her lips, taking the incentive for the first time. "Your target—it's Palpatine, isn't it?"

Huge brown eyes fixed on Mara, steady in their determination. "We're going after Palpatine, yes. He's the primary target."

Mara squared her jaw and nodded, equally determined to fulfill her own very different mission brief. "I can get you to him."

.

.

.

.


	31. Chapter 31

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER 31**

.

.

"Interesting."

Han glanced to Luke, who murmured the word whilst stood calmly before the viewport, watching. Three MC 80 Destroyers had come in from hyperspace to the _Executor's_ starboard side a short while ago, and abruptly begun unloading their combined firepower at a concentrated area close to the Super Star Destroyer's primary bridge, well above Han and Luke's present location in one of the hulking main personnel blocks that nestled in the central well of the _Executor's_ upper surface.

Kid was taking this a little too calmly, for Han's liking; it definitely felt like they should be doing something, rather than standing in a corridor taking in the unexpected view. Individual missiles, wide ion pulses and pinpoint-accurate laser fire were beginning to blur into an ever-widening surge of raw power, thrown with rash ferocity against the _Executor's_ monumental shields. He glanced again to the kid, who remained still, watching intently.

With no response forthcoming, Han took his comlink from his belt in anticipation, assuming that Luke would want to contact the bridge. Still nothing…

Eventually he could stand it no more. "Dangerous?" he prompted.

Luke gave a brief sideways lilt of his head in a half-shrug of allowance as the first return volleys began to flare from the deep trench of the _Executor's_ perimeter ahead of and below their position, in synchronized retort. "They're rotating on a central axis, so that they can recharge their batteries and their shields continually as each depleted area rotates away from us, whereas the _Executor_ is taking hits from all three Destroyers to a single field, and running its weapon batteries to that quarter hot, trying to keep up."

Han glanced back out to where the particle and ray shields visibly rippled as they worked to dissipate the incoming firepower. "Are we…is there a way around that?"

"Move," Luke said simply, then glanced out to the distant starfield in judgment. "But we don't seem to be doing so."

"…And…?"

Again Luke shrugged. "And nothing. This is Admiral Brie's show, not mine."

The order had been waiting when Han had checked official comms that morning; a command from the Emperor himself that General Antilles was to report to Engineering, where a newly developed communications net required appraisal.

A write-up on a communications network. The Old Man couldn't've made the slap to the wrist much clearer.

Han stared out with a sort of morbid fascination at the incoming firepower, feeling the first rumbles of concussion through the deckplates at his feet. "Can we…do the same as them?"

"We don't have equidistant weapons batteries. Ours are mainly clustered around the periphery trenches, and our profile means that even those that aren't have a limited line of fire if we start rotating on a central axis. We could rotate for shield stability, but it would be at the cost of firepower, and since even at three ships to one that's still our main advantage, we should play to it. I'd still maneuver nose-on, though, with a fifteen-degree axis-tilt. Plus since they seem set on staying, I'd try an orbital manouver on sublight engines; move our position to match their rotation, so we kept their same section under fire—though I doubt the Rebel Destroyers would let me, since they're obviously using the _Executor_ to shield them from the Death Star."

Han stared at Luke, who still stood impassively watching, as if viewing fireworks at an organized event. He forgot sometimes that the kid'd had this high-end tactical stuff drummed into him from the age of seven. Apparently Brie hadn't, and it was showing in her tactics, right now.

Because she was in command, here. _That_ was the real slap-down that the kid had received for whatever he'd said to Palpatine yesterday—and that one was very visible. And without Luke saying a word, Han knew the kid was all-hells hacked off at that fact.

So he turned to Luke, voice flat. "You're not gonna tell her any of that, are you?"

"Who, Shira? If she's worth the insignia on her uniform, she'll already know it."

"But you don't really care if she doesn't."

"Like I said, it's not my command."

"So you're just gonna do nothing?"

"No, I'm going to watch," Luke said, not moving. "Know you enemies—or rather, your allies." He glanced briefly to Han. "I use the term loosely."

Han stared for a few seconds… "This is one of those situations where you keep on talkin', but you're not actually _saying_ anything."

"I want to see Shira in command. She's been working hard to earn herself a place center-stage, and she clearly intends to continue doing so. You never know when your life might depend on knowing how someone in that position reacts under pressure."

"So we're just gonna…stand here and do nothing?"

"No, we're going to watch, and learn. Shira's cautious; she's too worried about her own hide to ever really put it on the line."

Han looked back to the burgeoning battle. "They're literally throwing everything they've got at her, right now."

"And I'll bet she's sweating," Luke grinned knowingly. "Particularly since we're seriously undermanned. She was picked out by my—by Vader at a far later age than I was by Palpatine. Knowing Vader, he would have had his own agenda when he trained her, and I don't think it was to put her on the bridge of a Star Destroyer. She's a plotter, a strategist, but the kind who works under cover over months to manipulate plans into fruition—that's clearly where her abilities lay. That isn't what she's being asked to do here, so…let's see what happens."

"But not help?"

"If I get involved, I don't get a true representation of how she reacts under fire."

Han glanced out at the maelstrom of incoming energy, then back to the kid. "You know you're under the same guns, right?"

"We're not the target. This must be a covering action."

Luke remained still, only his eyes moving rapidly across the scene, taking everything in. Han turned to stare into the sun-bright glare of incoming fire, all of it concentrated high above their position, presumably at the _Executor's_ heavily shielded bridge. Sure as hell didn't look like any kind of covering action to him.

Blazing flares lit the darkness in a wide torrent, unloading incredible amounts of power into shields designed specifically to take it, the ultimate exemplar of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object… And below the Rebel ships, where the incandescent radiance of the incoming firepower finally faded into the darkness of space, the first specks began to flare, tiny and incredibly fast, swarming in with premeditated intent.

Star fighters. Lots of them, incoming. "So…what about them?"

"Immaterial."

"Well then why are they launching them?"

"Pre-empting us, presumably. Maybe they still have people on the surface and they need to buy time."

"Surface of what—what are they even after, if it's not us? Why are they here at all?"

Kid seemed to pause as if considering, then said, "Rhen Var."

"What, that chunk of freeze-dried nothin'?" Han glanced at the planet below. "Well then they're pointin' the wrong way to—wait a minute, what the hell's on Rhen Var?"

Luke ignored the question, eyes narrowing intently at the spectacle of multiple flights of incoming snub-nose fighters.

As the first TIEs launched from the _Executor's_ bays to meet them, the snub-noses split off into finger-four formations, their diminutive size meaning that they could pass through capital ship shields to rake the surface of the _Executor_ , raising brief explosions which blazed in the darkness as the TIEs gave chase.

"What _are_ the snubs doing this close?" the kid murmured, stepping close to the thick transparisteel to widen his range of view.

"Shield generators?" Han guessed.

"…..No, they're spread too wide. Look at them, they're going for random targets—anything splashy. If they had an objective here they'd be tighter grouped. They'd be covering close-formation fighter units to get them in past our…"

He'd trailed off, head tilting to press against the viewport, craning to see… Han followed his attention, staring out into the chaos of battle with a pilot's eye and trying to make out snub-fighter types in the melee.

Suddenly Luke backed up, scrabbling for his own comlink. "Kuso— _kuso!"_

"What?!"

Luke had already pulled his comlink, speaking rapidly to someone from Ops onboard the Death Star, asking for Palpatine's location.

" _Sir, I can confirm that the Emperor's presently onboard, however I'm not authorized to provide his precise location over comms. But I can tell you that he's given an order not to be disturbed under any circumstances."_

"Are you under direct attack—are they targeting the Death Star?"

"No, Sir, we're presently beyond the arena. As far as we're aware, all firepower's being centered on the _Executor_."

"Prime the hyperspace matrix for a lightspeed jump back to Fondor."

"…"Sir," The hesitant words of the Ops officer spoke volumes about someone realizing that he was about to be put squarely in the middle of someone else's argument. "We've already been ordered to pull forward towards the _Executor_ on sublight thrusters, to force the Rebel destroyers to close with her, if they want to continue using the _Executor_ as shelter from the Death Star's line of fire."

Han was left standing as the kid abruptly strode off, his brief intention to stay out of it clearly sunk without a trace beneath some critical flash of realization. For a moment Han just stared at the kid's receding back, watching him bark orders into his comlink, voice tight with frustration.

"If you do that you limit the amount of batteries that the _Executor_ can bring to bear on them, and proximity will force the Rebel Destroyers to narrow their field of fire even tighter. They'll punch through the _Executor's_ shields. Back off."

"Sir, we have a direct order from Admiral Bress on the Death Star's Bridge." There was a hint of an apology in the Ops officer's words, along with a big dose of nerves.

"You tell Admiral Bress that I will personally come over there and put a lightsaber through his skull if he doesn't start calculations and maneuvers for that lightspeed jump right now. And then I'll come looking for you. Do you understand?"

"Sir, yes Sir!"

Han caught up, reaching out to the kid without touching him. "Hey, what's goin' on?"

He was ignored entirely as Luke cut the line, immediately connecting another, internal this time.

"Ops, this is General Antilles. Do you have TIE Interceptors available onboard the _Executor_?"

"Yes sir, we have sixteen avail—"

"I want two ready to fly by the time I make it down to the fighter hangar."

"Yes Sir."

Han straightened. "Oh, so now suddenly we're going out there?"

"Not we; me." Luke didn't slow as he walked to an open turbolift.

"What the…" He followed the kid in, insulted. "I'm always your wingman."

"I don't want you, not for this."

"Why the hell not?"

Luke turned, increasingly wired as the situation escalated for reasons that Han wasn't even sure of. "What if it's the Rogues, Han? What if one of the Rogues is on my tail, and you have one second to react—one second. The only way you can break it off is a killing shot. Who's gonna die out there, him or me?"

Han hesitated—

"Time's up," Luke said without emotion. "I'm dead."

"Luke…"

The kid's voice came back with no hint of either surprise or disappointment. "Welcome to my world, Han. Welcome to every single decision in my life."

The turbolift slowed, rotating to meet the doors to the fighter hangar as they opened, and Luke stepped out without looking back

.

.

Han caught up with the kid in the pilot's tack-room adjacent to the fighter hangar, where a supply droid was handing him a standard issue flight suit through a narrow hatch. As the kid reached out to take it Han brought his own hand down on top, speaking quickly.

"I got the answer to your question."

"If it was too late after four seconds, then four minutes is pretty pointless," Luke said, dragging the flight suit from under Han's grip.

"The answer is, why the hell are you goin' out there in the first place? Are you really gonna fight them? It'll be the Rogues out there, you know that. You know _them_."

Luke had already pulled off his jacket in agitated, jerky moves to yank the flight suit on over his pants and shirt. "No I'm not gonna fight them. But I need to get past them, and if I have to do that, I'd rather it be in a ship that can outrun or outfly them before they decide to start taking pot-shots." He glanced up to Han as he fastened his flightsuit. "Because I doubt they'd feel the same way even if they knew who I was…do you?"

Han blinked, suddenly on quicksand again. "Wait, why do you have to get past them?"

"Because I just saw an Imperial shuttle sneak out from one of the MC 80s over there and take a wide arc around the rear edge of the cruisers—and I want to know where it's going."

Han shook his head. "And you can't comm the bridge and ask them to track it?!"

Luke sat, pulling on the heavy pilot's boots and snapping their closures without looking up. "I was very pointedly pulled out of the line of command today, in case you hadn't noticed."

"And now you're so pissed that you won't even comm the bridge and ask them to track a few assault craft?"

"I don't want to…" Luke twitched, but clearly could find no other way to say it, so spoke in a hasty rush, still without meeting Han's eye. "I don't want to bring it to Brie's attention."

Han stared for long seconds…was the kid actually trying to _protect_ it?

Turning, he nodded at the supply droid. "Flight suit."

He dressed in record time, boots still undone as he hobbled out, managing to get onto the hangar floor as the I-TIE cradles were being ratcheted to the front of the launch system in preparation for takeoff. Luke was stood on the boarding gantry, struggling with the internal webbing of his helmet as the massive cradles brought the I-TIEs within reach. Glancing to make sure that a second I-TIE was being prepped with no wingman waiting, Han hitched his helmet under his arm to take Luke's.

"Here, gimme that." He started tightening the internal webbing, wrestling it as small as it would go. "You need your own helmet—this won't go small enough."

"Han—" Luke snatched the helmet back, then visibly reined in his temper, looking down. "I can do it. I'm not a kid any more, a standard helmet fits me."

"You're seventeen."

Luke glanced quickly up at Han then away, a little mischief sounding in his murmured words. "Still fly better than you."

It should've been an insult…but in fact it just meant that everything was fine, Han knew, the status quo—such as it was—reinstated.

And look at that—the standard flight helmet did fit him. Kid was growing up.

.

.

They made it out of the bay in record time, the change from bright light to utter darkness disorienting, as artificial gravity slapped in dizzily about them in the same moment. By the time Han had blinked, Luke's I-TIE in front of him had already twisted away, vectoring on its own course to hug close to the unremitting gray landscape of the Super Star Destroyer's underbelly.

It was a while since Han had flown any kind of TIE in truth, and the Interceptors were always kinda skittish, that he remembered. He was just starting to pull the stick in a few experimental yaws when the first flashes of pulsed fire began to flare to either side of his fighter, from the edges of the combat field.

Ahead of him, Luke had stayed true to form in his typical willingness to simply bat out of the hangar and into the fight without waiting for his wingman, so Han was too far behind to react anyway when Luke's I-TIE corkscrewed around the first set of Rebel A-wings in its path, the snub-nose fighters already on the tail of two standard TIEs. Without opening fire in support of either party Luke tucked back close to the Star Destroyer's hull above him and powered forwards, coming out of the helix at an angle that naturally veered him away from their course. For a second the two Rebel snubs swerved at the unexpected flyover, then corrected, and Han watched as the lead briefly turned his fighter's nose…then almost immediately angled back to his original targets.

He'd just let out a breath, toggling the comms to a private channel to speak, when the kid surprised him by cutting forward thrust and simultaneously barrel-rolling, so that Han shot past him within the center of Luke's roll, knuckles white on his yoke as he tried to hold a straight course within the other I-TIE's helix. He hadn't even had time to let out a yell—though when his brain caught up, he realized it was running through an extensive list of expletives. He'd forgotten how wild the kid flew.

"Luke, what the f—"

"You'd better lead," Luke said calmly.

"I think I'd better, when you're flyin' like that!" Han yelled.

A bright red flare of power splashed onto the Star Destroyer's hull close to his portside, and Han flinched without changing course; it had come from the side, a stray from someone else's dogfight. "Wait, why am I leading?"

"Because I have no problem shooting either side off your back," came the level reply. "You need to turn to two-eighty and get through the dogfights to the far side of the big Rebel Destroyers. The Rebel task force was heading roughly along that vector."

Han toggled the HUD to project co-ordinates into the faceplate of his helmet, splitting his attention between that and the fast-closing dogfights as he brought his fighter in line with the kid's rough guess of where they should head, only the lateral co-ordinates provided, since as yet they had no clearer guide.

In seconds, the near-featureless plates of the Super Star Destroyer's vast underside gave way to the deeply inset precipice of a vast, clustered cityscape cut into its ventral hull. Massive, multilevel blocks divided into individual structures whose long trenches were now the battlefield for a myriad of snub-nose dogfights, as Rebel fighters dropped in amongst the ravines where they knew the Star Destroyer's heavy turbolasers couldn't target for fear of damaging itself.

Bright flares of red and green marked smaller fire from TIE and Rebel fighters though, criss-crossing in the cityscape's heavy shadows and splashing off armored walls.

Then they were among them, the tiny dots resolving into X- and A-wing fighters—easily a few dozen of each, with near free rein over this section. Only a few TIEs were in pursuit, the hulked towers of multiple ion cannons that bristled to either side of the cityscape near-silent, their guns tracking but only able to pick off those who flew entirely clear of the inset structures and thus presented a clean shot. Most of the fighters hunkered low in two-ship elements, making long strafing runs down the artificial canyons; maximum damage for minimal risk.

But in the greater scheme of things, they achieved nothing—Luke was right; this was surface damage. It was a fleabite on a bantha.

His train of thought was broken as an X-wing angled in from a tight turn to his port side and screamed overhead, with a TIE close on its tail. Han watched as the TIE dropped to a perfect kill position and took the X-wing out with two precise shots, then itself exploded into a fiery ball as another X-wing vectored in from another man-made canyon to slide behind it in the pandemonium, taking it out with all four laser cannon flaring.

For a second Han tightened his grip on his joystick, twitching it automatically to the side as he snapped his TIE over in a quick reversal to drop in behind the X-wing, lining up for a shot—then hesitated, unsure what he was doing. Who he was protecting.

Ahead of him, the snub fighter went evasive with a split-S which took its path on about as near a right-angle as it could manage. With a superior vector to thrust ratio, Han knew he could have followed—could have turned inside the X-wing's path and had the perfect line-up for the shot; it would have literally flown itself into his sights—but he watched it go, engines roaring, the pilot probably thinking this had been his lucky day.

As he slowed a fraction an A-wing pulled an inverse turn to snap off a quick shot which spanged brightly on his shields, making Han's I-TIE lurch a second before he whipped the yoke and batted the engines.

"Han," It was Luke's voice, loud and clipped. "Get above the structures. Pull into our turbolaser guns' sights, the Rebel snubs won't follow."

It was a fair tactic. The _Executor_ was undermanned, which meant that majority of their guns would be on auto-fire. Than meant that they'd ID any TIEs as friendly based on their transponder codes, auto-mapping their trajectory and calculating omissions in their ongoing fire patterns to ensure they missed TIEs. Manned guns were useful because they were unpredictable, but auto-fire returned fewer friendly-fire casualties every time.

Han pulled up sharply, aware from his scopes that Luke had dropped back a fraction more. Took him a second to realize why. "Luke! Don't target the A-wing."

"Get out of its sights, then!"

This was gettin' all-hells messy. As the kid's voice came tightly back over the comm, Han forced his TIE higher at speed, pulling his own split-S in avoidance as three fast shots seared by beneath him—green though; probably Luke trying to scare the A-wing off.

They were moving out past the dogfights now, accelerating towards the three massive Rebel frigates which still revolved ponderously on their own axes, tiling shields and gun emplacements so that they could run them to critical as they faced the Super Star Destroyer, and then slowly roll away to recharge on an ever-renewing rotation.

The amount of raw power from the heavy ion cannons threw flaring bolts to light the darkness just above their I-TIE's flight path, blinding even through the photovoltaic transparisteel of the cockpits. Han scowled, almost closing his eyes as he tipped his head away, trying not to look at it as they hurtled towards it.

His TIE's transponder ID, which moments ago had identified him as a friendly and so prompted Imperial artillery to avoid him, was now becoming the kind of liability that might get him killed as the first few ranging shots from the massive Rebel MC 80's began to tighten in on him, forcing him to open his eyes and start evasives.

They held their course, coming level with each other just below the coruscating influx of high-energy fire until the irregular, bulbous surface of the nearest Rebel Destroyer flashed by overhead in a blur of mottled blue-grey. Thankfully there were no Rebel fighters here, the entire arena still centering solely around the _Executor_. Han glanced back at her, parts of her dorsal hull blackened where small failures in her shields had allowed the ongoing barrage of ion-fire from the three Rebel battlecruisers to punch through and cause surface damage. She'd somehow angled a few degrees on her axis, making her upper hull more vulnerable, and Han remembered again Luke's poor opinion of Admiral Brie's lack of experience in battle simply because no veteran Captain would allow even a single degree of their ship's profile to be vulnerable to enemy fire unless they had to.

Without thinking they skimmed tightly to the surface, using the same trick that the Rebels had used against the Star Destroyer by travelling so close that they limited automated fire response across the irregular Mon Cal-built hull, their low radar profile ensuring that they probably also flicked in and out of interference, their dull grey finish rendering them near-invisible to the naked eye.

A few stray shots picked up their path, but most likely no-one figured that two random TIEs were really that much of a problem in the greater scheme of things. All power, both computational and generator-based, was clearly being routed firmly towards the _Executor_.

Which still prompted the question…why? Because at the end of the day, substantial as it was, the massed firepower of three MC 80 battlecruisers wouldn't bring the _Executor_ down—let alone the Death Star behind her, which the Rebel battlecruisers were presently very wisely avoiding.

Han remembered again Luke's sudden intense reaction in the _Executor's_ corridor, when he'd cursed like a Corellian and then spun about shouting orders into his comlink as he'd headed for the TIE bay, having gone from cool disinterest to one hundred percent in the space of a single thought. A specific realization.

Kid knew what this was—all of it.

Han dropped back a fraction further and flicked his comm to scramble the transmission as he connected a private channel to Luke's TIE. "You wanna tell me what I nearly got my ass singed off for, yet?"

"You're looking at it," Luke came back, obscure as ever.

Han scanned his eyeline, which stretched out across open space as the MC 80 streaked by above, the polar white orb of Rhen Var in the near distance beyond.

That was when he saw them—a small group of ships whose course looked like they were on a return trip from Rhen Var itself, circling wide around the far side of the three Rebel Destroyers in their effort to avoid detection. It was a formation of just five ships; four X-wings in a tight finger-four formation…and a battered YT freighter firing on five exhaust ports.

He stared, squinting. "Is that…?"

Luke's voice cut in on a wide-band transmission. " _Millenium Falcon_ , come in?" A brief pause, in which the wide-band comms were awash with coded ship-to-ship orders and tactics…but no reply to the kid's hail. " _Millennium Falcon_ , you're inbound towards the MC 80s on a two-eighty by two-fifty course…I'm looking right at you. Come in."

Silence…..

Glancing down, Han checked he was still on the private channel. "That's the _Falcon_ , right—that's your ship?"

"Yeah. And I didn't fix it up so that they could fly it in pitch battle and splash its ID all over Imperial databanks as a Rebel vessel. Now I need new ID, I need a new transponder…"

Han shook his head. "What d'you need it for any more, anyway? And it's way out from the main battle—where have they even been?"

"Rhen Var," Luke said grimly.

Han frowned, remembering the kid's earlier claim of the same. "Just what's on Rhen Var, exactly?" Silence…so long that Han toggled his comm switch, wondering if he was being jammed. "Luke…?"

"The reason we're all here," the kid said grimly at last. "Palpatine's cloning facility."

Han jolted in his seat. "Wait, what th— How do they even—? Why am I always the last to know these things?!"

"Because the last time you knew when Palpatine was vulnerable, the Rebellion launched an attack. Based on your intel."

"So how the hell do they know this time?"

"….. Because I told them," Luke came back levelly.

"Y—you told them?" Han lifted his gloved hands from the TIE's yoke to press them against his helmeted head, the situation reeling as fast as the starfield before him. "You're kidding me! And you didn't think that fact might have been worth mentioning at some point?!"

"I just d—"

"Before now," Han yelled.

"You wanted me to tell you that I'd handed the itinerary of Palpatine's Super Star Destroyer and the Death Star itself, as well as the location of his cloning facility, over to Leia? When you were getting impromptu visits to your quarters by Palpatine himself? The one man who could pull anything from your mind, at will."

"That's…even if…" Han paused, too many questions surfacing at once. "When the hell did you tell them?!"

"Last night. I thought I'd try that _right thing_ that you keep on pushing me to do," Luke said, with typical flat understatement. "I gotta say, doesn't feel so great, yet."

"So…why are we here, now? I mean, right out here. Are we…stopping them?"

Again that silence stretched painfully… "No."

Han had stopped breathing, the flare of wild pride that the kid had actually, finally done it exploding inside his head and leaving him staring in heady euphoria.

This was what people meant when they said lightheaded with exhilaration—they meant this, right here! This inane grin that he knew he had under his breath mask, wrapped around words that wouldn't come out as he basked in the moment, so that—

As suddenly as it had whipped into being, the mass of euphoria dissolved into panic.

"Wait…you told _Leia_ to come here?"

"I told her where the clones were," Luke said. "In return for her word that she wouldn't get personally involved, because Palpatine would be here."

"….. Have you _met_ your sister?! She's a marginally more diplomatic version of you."

"She gave me her—"

"What you have to ask yourself is, what would Luke Antilles do in a slightly less antagonistic and mule-headed mood?"

Silence…into which Han prompted, "In this exact situation, given what you and your leadership need and have actively sought for so long, and given the opportunity on offer right now, today…what would you do, Luke?"

A string of expletives spilled across the private channel into Han's helmet, as the I-TIE in front of him peeled off in an inverse turn, accelerating along the side of the nearest MC 80 battlecruiser towards the Death Star.

Han had wheeled around to follow before Luke spoke again, voice tight. "Do you know the current frequencies the Rebels will be using?"

"Uuhh…" Han was toggling through his own fighter's comm system as he spoke, trying the most recent ones he knew. Channels whistled and hissed in broken static, nothing active—

Then in a burst of tangled noise he hit a frequency which tumbled with data, all of it coded. Keying in, he tried a wide-band transmission. "Rebel comms, this is Han Solo—I repeat, this is Han Solo—come in?"

Nothing. He tried again. "Rebel comms, this is—"

"Lieutenant Solo—we need a response to the code Aeon Absolute?"

"Uhhh…" Han wracked his brain for the correct ID response, one of several 'safe codes' that any Rebel fighter pilot held. "Is it Kinto Scion? Wait, no! Kinto Major!"

"Tune to 3342."

Which meant… Han pursed his lips, deciphering; 3676. He recalibrated his comms, and instantly the interference separated out into Rebel chatter.

"Lieutenant Solo, we've locked your location as onboard an Imperial I-TIE directly below the _Ardent_ battlecruiser, is that correct?"

"Yeah, I'm in a TIE Interceptor. Transmit my ID to the task force as friendly, will ya?" Han hesitated a fraction, then added. "There's a second I-TIE directly ahead of me—I'm transmitting its transponder now; it's friendly too."

Unexpectedly Madine's voice came over the comm; he must have been listening in. "Solo, you want to fill us in?"

"I don't think I can, sir. Is—" He hesitated, unwilling to say Leia's name even on secure comms. "Is she here?"

There was a second's pause, then Madine's wary voice came back on. "…Who are you flying with, Lieutenant Solo? Who's the second I-TIE?"

"The guy who gave you Rhen Var's identity," Han came back.

They were arcing back round beneath the bulbous curves of the Mon Cal battlecruiser now, Han following a ship's length behind Luke as he turned away from Rhen Var and towards the huge sphere of the Death Star, visible in the distance. At the speed they were travelling, three seconds of comm silence was the difference between intercepting the receding task force and losing it entirely as it arced away from Han's view.

Unable to wait, he took a breath to speak— and the _click-tak_ of connecting comm signals sounded in his ear, followed by a familiar and much-missed voice.

"Han—you're in an I-TIE?"

"Leia? Where are—"

"They just transmitted your transponder ID." Her voice was tense and clipped; she had to be in the middle of this. "Han, I just got a comm from Chewie. We dropped a Special Ops team on Rhen Var. They found the cloning chamber…there were no defenses though, everything was open and the cloning cylinders are gone. It's empty already. Do you know where they are?"

"Are you with Chewie?" Han asked. "Are you in one of the X-wings or with Chewie?"

Leia paused a fraction, and Han's grip on the yoke of his TIE wavered as he watched the small assault group gain distance to port, whilst Luke's I-TIE did the same to starboard.

At least Leia's voice was apologetic when she spoke. "I'm not going to tell you."

Han leaned back in his chair, rattling his acceleration harness. "Well let me take a guess…would you be heading towards some big man-made spherical kinda thing? Cos that's where Luke's heading right now."

"Luke's with you?"

"I'm looking at the tail lights of his TIE right now."

"Han, you need to help Chewie. Please. He's in the _Falcon_. We need to destroy the clones—everything hinges on it."

Han flicked his intercom back to his other private channel, to hear Luke still yelling at him.

He spoke immediately, knowing the kid would shut up and listen. "She's not in the _Falcon_. She just asked me to go help Chewie and said he's in the _Falcon_ , going after the clones. She said to help _him_ , not to help _us_ —that means she's not with him."

"She's going after Palpatine," Luke said grimly.

Han glanced ahead at the looming sphere of the Death Star, which sat in the darkness of its own shadow ahead of them, Rhen Var's sun eclipsed by its mass. "Is she there already?"

"I don't know where she is, she's masking her presence so Palpatine won't sense her."

"Hold on." He flicked the channel again, this time to hear Luke's sister yelling at him. "Leia, are you onboard yet?"

"Han, you have to help Chewie!"

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Please!"

"Where are you?"

Another silence—and Han was just preparing to haul his TIE about one more time when she came back online. "I'll tell you if you promise to help Chewie. Han, everything we're doing here depends on Chewie's team taking out the clones."

"He can get the clones on his own."

"He doesn't know where they are!"

"I don't know where they are!"

"Ask Luke."

Han muttered a string of curses as he flicked the comm. "She wants to know where the clones are."

"Where is she?"

"Hey, don't you start."

"Ask her where she is, and I'll tell her where the clones are."

"I've already asked that. She says I've got to help take down the clones, then she'll tell me where she is."

"Tell her—"

"Just tell me where the hell the clones are! You two are impossible to be in between, you know that?!"

For once the kid broke first. "The plan was for there to be two stock military transports," he said quickly. "The one going to the Death Star would carry the clones and master samples, the one heading for the _Executor_ is carrying additional equipment, that's all. Just look for two military transports, probably with a TIE accompaniment. That'll be them."

"Two transports…what type?"

"How many transports do you think there'll be in the middle of a dogfight, Han?!" Luke was yelling now, voice cracking. "Give me the frequency you were using to talk to Leia, then—" He paused a fraction of a second, but pushed forward resolutely, "go help Chewie take out the clone transport."

"…You sure?"

Kid didn't answer that, instead going with, "The clone transports weren't onboard the _Executor_ when we left, so that means they're still en-route from Rhen Var. They must be incoming to the _Executor_ and the Death Star right now. Let them get far enough that they split up, then you'll know which one to target."

Han yanked at his fighter's yoke, feeling the nimble craft wheel to port as the starscape twisted into freefall until Rhen Var and the incoming _Falcon_ centered up on his vision. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'm going to stop Leia," Luke said grimly.

.

.

.

.

.

Leia was stood in the stolen Imperial shuttle's cockpit, eyes on the daunting mass of the Death Star, whose eclipsed surface was settling out to individual lights about a wide equatorial trench. She was still staring when the comm came in, making her heartrate race.

"Leia?"

She glanced down, eyes widening as Luke's voice came over a Rebel frequency.

"Leia, answer the damn comm, I know you're there."

For a second she stared…then reached out between the pilots to push the comm toggle, her fingers oddly weak. "Luke—"

"You're heading for the Death Star aren't you—you're going exactly where I asked you not to go."

"Luke I can't simply stand—"

"You gave your word."

"I gave my word that I'd have nothing to do with the clones or the Rhen Var storehouse—that was what you asked, and that was what I agreed to stay away from."

"No involvement, that was what I said. No involvement."

"I didn't know that this—"

"Then you shouldn't have given your word."

He was beyond angry, she could tell that even over the comm. How many times had Han warned her never to lie to him—that he'd been lied to throughout his life by those who sought to use him.

"I'm sorry—I am. I really, truly am. But I have to do this. I have to stop Palpatine."

"Don't." The word was clipped by raw emotion. "Don't make me come there and finish this. Don't make me turn on—"

A loud hiss overtook his words as a blanket blackout cut all comms, leaving Leia staring at the console, throat constricted by her own guilt.

Because he was right; she'd told him she wouldn't do this. And in doing it anyway, she was eliciting the very thing that she knew induced the worst reaction from him; she was backing him into a corner. Every single time that had happened to date, he had pushed back spectacularly.

She knew that. She _knew_ it.

But the opportunity to remove Palpatine may never come again. This was the most vulnerable he'd _ever_ allow himself to be—here and now. Even if they got the clones, if they didn't also stop Palpatine right now, he would simply create more. And the next time they wouldn't be in Rebel-held territory, and Palpatine wouldn't feel compelled to cross the border to retrieve them himself. Another half-year and his Empire would be reconstructed about him and he himself invulnerable, locked away in the center of his own planet-spanning stronghold, utterly unreachable.

This was a defining moment, she could sense it in every cell of her being… and that meant Luke did, too. His words, demand and desperation both, had told the truth of that:

' _Don't make me come there and finish this. Don't make me turn on—'_ …you.

.

.

.

.

.

Palpatine stood to the circular viewport of his high tower onboard the Death Star, watching the distant battle where antiquated and retrofitted Rebel destroyers—ships built for interstellar travel, not war—had the temerity to think that if they held their nerve and huddled in a pack for protection, they could maim the flagship of the Imperial fleet.

Upstart little curs. Wild dogs running in a pack, to gain some rash bravado. If he were onboard the _Executor_ right now he would atomize them, and bask in the fading glow of their demise.

But that was not the plan—not yet. Right now, he needed them here. Needed the only true and worthy warrior in their pack to feel sufficiently emboldened to step forward with all the misplaced nobility that her kind always embodied, believing that she could change destiny.

When her corpse laid still on the floor before him…then, the _Executor_ would jump to lightspeed, giving the Death Star's main laser an unrestricted line of sight at three of the Rebel pack's most valuable assets. Three Mon Cal battlecruisers, all snared and lost in a single ill-conceived offensive—along with their precious Jedi; the last of her kind. A body-blow from which they would struggle to recover. A defeat which would hold them down until his new Empire was ready to hunt them in earnest.

And in the process it would also burn whatever misguided curiosity had fed his advocate's defiance in the last year. Would finally raze away the muddy detritus of ugly and unbefitting emotions which had accumulated about that black heart, and temper it to utter hardness once more.

Machination; the art within strategy.

He took a slow breath in; this was the moment to savor, the moment that everything came once more into his control by his own hand. There was nothing more glorious and there was nothing more powerful. The darkness vibrated, potent.

He frowned in concentration, awareness spreading; within the far battle was a single locus, frustration and fury both. His advocate, volatile as ever, the shards of the fracture splintering, crazing outwards ever wider…but at a distance, just as Palpatine intended.

Yes, the boy required ongoing supervision and checks to hold him in place, but his value far outweighed the inconvenience of these corrections that were necessary from time to time. A powerful advocate was all very well, but Lord Vader had provided the lesson that power alone was insufficient; one also needed control.

The Rule of Two was all very well, but Palpatine had long considered himself above any concept of law or diktat. He was not trying to create a worthy successor. He understood the desirability of singling out the strongest to serve as an extension of your own will, but he neither wanted nor needed someone who was, at their most basic, the very manifestation of a true threat. Instead, he had invested years in building his perfect lifelong advocate from the raw potential of the child who had so fortuitously come to his notice. Had honed a weapon of ultimate power…but stripped it of any notion of ambition or self-worth. And there— _there_ —was its value. The payoff which validated years of investment and refinement. Because as long as the boy placed his Master's life above his own—the lesson that had been a lifetime in the making—then Palpatine had his supremacy; he had his control.

The illuminated console to his back pipped a single tone in staggered code, and Palpatine's lips twitched to a private smile.

Mara, his pretty little Jade jewel, fulfilling her master's commands to perfection. The code was internal; she must be onboard…and so, then, must his quarry.

He turned from the brutal beauty of the battle, flicking the sleeve of the long, cowled cloak that he wore aside as he stepped to the circular console, immensely pleased that Kenobi's apprentice had come for him. Now he could legitimately allow Mara to kill the Jedi woman in her master's defense, thus absolving him of any blame whilst driving the final wedge between Mara and Luke. And if the Jedi killed Mara…it would be a loss, yes. But one must always be prepared to sacrifice one high-value piece to gain another, and it would most certainly alienate his Sith advocate from the Jedi woman for ever. Whether Antilles knew the truth of their connection or not.

Either way, it would be a victory for Palpatine.

But one must always keep one's eyes on the greater game at hand. Flicking the comm to transmit, he leaned forward a fraction. "Admiral Bress, order the wide-band communications disruption to cease, and contact Admiral Brie onboard the _Executor_."

"Of course, Excellency."

He turned slightly to glance again at the distant Super Star Destroyer, rocked by Rebel fire.

Shira's voice came a moment later, elevated slightly, nerves obvious. "Master, we're under heavy fire. We need—"

"Have the transports and their escorts lifted off from Rhen Var's storehouse?"

"Yes, but—"

"Ensure that the transport carrying the clones is sufficiently protected until it docks with the Death Star, and that the second transport docks safely with the _Executor_."

He was interested in neither her panic nor her uncertainty. He had intended this role for Antilles, both to keep him occupied and because the youth would barely blink under such stress. But the boy's actions in the Throne Room yesterday had demanded a response, and to remove a career soldier from primary command of a battle was as clear a message as Palpatine could muster. "Where is Antilles?"

There was brief lull, in which Palpatine could imagine those who served him clambering to comply in their rush to locate his advocate, who was likely sulking in some empty room onboard the _Executor_ , analytical eyes dissecting the unfolding battle with—

"Sir, he's in an I-TIE. We have his transponder location at—"

Palpatine gritted his teeth. "Recall him. By my order."

"Yes, Excellency."

"Wait!" No influence; Palpatine could have no visible influence on Antilles' actions today.

In the time it took him to reflect this, the voice of a comms officer cut in. "Excellency, Commander Antilles is on record as already having been in communication with the Death Star's main Ops, to ensure that it wasn't under direct attack. He then ordered calculations initiated for a potential jump back to Fondor, if necessary."

So the boy still had some sense of duty, then. Perhaps he should have been given command of the _Executor_ , as intended. Despite his unpredictability and insubordination, he would never walk off the bridge of a Star Destroyer in pitch battle; professional obligation would have held him at arm's length, as Palpatine had originally planned. But there was still some level of direction that could be hidden within the pitch of battle, even now. "Order all I-TIEs to converge on the transports for protection. They are to be the sole priority of all Interceptors. Ensure that Commander Antilles receives the command along with the others."

"Of course, master." Shira again. "But the _Executor_ is sustaining some damage from—"

"Make the order, then scramble all channels."

"…Yes, master."

.

.

.

.

.

The squeal of jamming stopped abruptly in Han's aching ears, as his I-TIE batted across the edge of the dogfights, heading for the _Falcon_.

"Woa!" He immediately flicked his comm to transmit on the Rebel frequency, ignoring incoming Imperial commands. "Chewie, you hear me? It's Solo—Han Solo!"

A string of surprised howls interspersed by the odd chunter made Han both flinch at the racket, and grin at the words. "Yeah, well, y'know me, always in the thick of it. I just got off the comm from Leia, she tells me you're looking for something."

Another long explanation was whuffed out, making Han strain a little to understand; it was a long time since he'd had to speak this much Shiirywook. The odd straggler of laser fire zipping by overhead from other people's dogfights didn't exactly help with his concentration, either.

"Listen, we need to find two transports. Luke said they'd be moving the clones and active cylinders in the first, and all the other lab stuff in the second. They should split up as they get further from Rhen Var and then we.. can…" He trailed off, eyes flicking repeatedly to his rear shields on the HUD, where eight 'friendlies'—TIE Interceptors—were coming up on his tail. "Wait, are they _following_ me?!"

The eight I-TIEs performed a slow, curving course correction in staggered unison, turning a few degrees to Han's portside as they veered off. Han pursed his lips a second longer in consideration as he stared at what were undoubtedly the best combat pilots in the most advanced fighters…then played the hunch.

"Chewie, the I-TIEs—lock onto the I-TIEs and follow 'em. Pull back a little, don't spook them."

He made his own course correction as he spoke, widening his curve so that he dropped in a little back and to starboard of the group. They _had_ to be going somewhere important, right?

Chewie's long, curious howl came over the comlink.

"Okay, like I said there'll be two transports, one with the actual clones, the other just loaded with the lab gear. Luke said the one with the clones is set to head to the Death Star, because Palpy's too damn paranoid to let 'em go anywhere else. The other will dock with the _Executor_. That's how we'll separate out your clones. We wait for the transports to split, then throw everything at the one heading for the Death Star."

He didn't bother to mention that there'd now be at least eight I-TIEs between them and the clone transport. The Wook figured it out anyway of course, and let out a good long Wookiee curse.

Han tilted his head. "Hey, nobody said it was gonna be—"

The jamming cut abruptly back in, screeching in Han's ear and making him flinch.

.

.

.

.

.

They stood in a huddle in the secondary ops substation close to the base of the Death Star's Command Tower, the room's original two occupants hauled back away from the consoles to give the small Rebel incursion group access as Leia fought to hold her calm and dampen her senses, aware that they were getting ever closer to their target.

To have even hoped to clear the densely overlapped ray and projectile shields whilst avoiding the clustered turbolaser and ion turrets protecting the Emperor's closely-defended Command Tower, then dock onto the single, dedicated docking bay at the top of the tower, and still retain any element of surprise sufficient to reach the main chamber of the tower before it had been evacuated and crammed with Imperial stormtroopers, would have been patently impossible. The far easier option had been to employ counterfeit Imperial ID and transponders which would gain them access to the nearest viable general crew docking bay, merge with the crew in the midst of a chaotic and unanticipated battle, and make their way through the station on foot.

So far, it seemed to have worked.

"Okay…" Mica Tasseca leaned forward, the thick tumble of her red hair slipping over the shoulder of her stolen Imperial Tech's coveralls as she stared at the virtual screen, watching information scroll as her hands skimmed over the console at speed.

"If you're really sure that's where you want to go, as far as I can tell we can get to the Command Tower's only turbolift a few minutes from here. I can cut us access, and call it down to this level. The Emperor has guards around the tower, because I can see their comm chatter, but none at the very top level, which is identified as off-limits…"

She paused as Leia closed, pulling up a series of three-D maps over the original data, which scanned briefly between levels.

Leia scowled, eyeing the maps as she spoke, half to Mica and half to Kegg behind her. "We'll need to cover our backs close to the turbolift entry. It'd look too suspicious to try to close those corridors down, but we don't want Imperials just sat waiting when we make our exit."

Mica had been invaluable, efficiently cutting accesses into three separate consoles and slicing security at two sets of defensive doors—but then Leia had always suspected that the tech had nursed a more colorful past than she was prepared to admit. It wasn't unusual; half the people in the Alliance had arrived via some sort of semi-legal career, or been pushed into one, as the Empire had tightened its grip. Mica was no different.

Something buzzed at the back of Leia's awareness, making her tilt her head in close regard; some impending threat… She blinked it away; hardly surprising given where she was, and now—this close to a Sith Master—wasn't the time to be calling on the Force for hunches.

Commander Kegg stepped close to the console, a wall of competence and sinewy muscle. "Show me the corridors, let's see what we're dealing with."

They'd split the group already, Kegg always professionally wary. Four commandos had remained at each vulnerable turn or intersection in the labyrinthine corridors to slow down any response team on their tracks, leaving just Leia, Mica, Kegg, and Feiner to reach this far.

Kegg leaned in, scowling as he pointed at the holo-map. "These are high-energy enclision grids, can we shut these down from here?"

"They're not operational right now," Mica replied.

"I want to know they still won't be when we're coming back through that corridor. Close 'em down from here and give maintenance access, so we can get into their workings on the corridor as we pass, make sure they can't be reactivated. "

"Oh," Mica's embarrassment at failing to identify the potential danger made her voice drop a notch. "Yeah, I think I can get to the subroutines from here. Give me a minute."

"We need to get moving," Kegg said, glancing to the door. "I don't like sitting still in an enclosed room for this long."

"One minute…" Mara repeated, still working. "Okay, done."

The curved turbolift doors were already open when they rounded the last turn in the corridor, passing through the deactivated enclision grids which would have fired up and fried any unauthorized personnel in an instant, had they been active. Still, it made the hairs to the back of Leia's neck raise, as she walked through the inactive enclision field.

At the open doors of the command tower turbolift she turned to Kegg, nodding once. "This is it—this is as far as everyone goes."

He nodded, prepared to take up his post and hold the long stretch of corridors as long as necessary. Feiner too nodded once, turning around to set off down the corridor to an easier vantage point with grim determination. Mica straightened a fraction, alarmed.

"Wait, I need to come with you."

"No. When these doors open I'll be facing Palpatine himself. I can't be responsible for anyone else's safety in there."

"But I..." Mica hesitated, glancing to the internal controls. "I need to slice the exit, to open the doors. I thought you knew?"

"You can't do it from here?"

"Not with this kind of security, no."

Leia let out a brief, short breath—but her mind was on what awaited her, and experience let her know that any plan had to adapt once you were actually on the ground. She nodded, stepping onto the turbolift and turning about to see a final glimpse of Commander Kegg's grave expression as the curved door slid shut.

It was like moving up into dense cloud; a think fog which cooled her skin and enveloped her thoughts, and brought her breath faster. Leia glanced to the woman at her side, aware of Mica's nerves as she stared fixedly ahead, eyes on the thick bar of red lights which lit as they ascended, casting a surreal glow.

Again Leia hesitated, eyes on Mica, aware of the tingle of portent—

Then the carriage rotated and the doors opened unaided, onto a cavernous space whose dark, featureless walls were obscured within shadows ill-lit by distant starlight.

Arm reaching out protectively across Mica in the small space, Leia remained still for long moments, squinting to see further into the gloom after the bright lights of the turbolift. The command tower's main chamber was a single space, walls and high ceiling combining to form a cylinder divided from its widest point upwards by multiple levels and walkways, the apex of its arc a blur of shadows far above. A narrow walkway circled the turbolift at the room's center, surrounded by a deep shaft whose sheer drop was spanned by a narrow bridge. Leia's eyes followed her only crossing point towards a central platform before a bank of open metal steps and a vast circular viewport, the fathomless shaft casting a distant glow of thin light whose diffuse illumination only served to define the gloom of the vast space.

She took a step forward, looking to the huge circular viewport to the far end of the cylindrical space. A raised platform split it in two, low lights of multiple consoles beneath lending a faint blue cast. But Rhen Var was visible, a distant orb half-lit by its weak sun, before which the pitch battle between Alliance and Empire played out in remote silence like a dream, the fury and devastation of mortal combat on a massive scale reduced to a pale play of lights—

She stopped abruptly, heart skipping a beat.

Silhouetted in the gloom of the distant upper level was a chair—no, grander than that; a throne, almost—whose dim fabric moved a fraction, the darkness seeming to both camouflage and define its shrouded shape in a shift of shadows, like a veil concealing what lay beneath….

Leia blinked—willed away the fog—and the shrouded shadows shifted and congealed into something dangerously real.

"Welcome, Leia Skywalker. I have been expecting you."

The air left Leia's lungs in a low gasp—then she rallied, straightening her back and willfully halting her retreat before it had begun, lifting her chin to salvage fortitude from the moment of blank shock.

"Darth Sidious."

Self-satisfaction seeped like an oil-slick about him, and dripped from every word. "You say it as if you believe this a meeting of equals, child. But you should drop to your knees and put your eyes to the ground before you proclaim a name of such power."

"There's no power in what you've done by that name. Only a litany of shame."

"Of conquest, perhaps. But you are too young to understand. Too naïve."

"I understand exactly what you are."

He loosed a wide grin which split thin lips in dry amusement. "My dear, you could not hope to do so. None of your kind ever could. Sad, dim little motes which glow for a moment in the overwhelming darkness—how could you have any concept of the incandescent power that a furnace can embody?"

"I see what you do."

The grin settled to something far more calculating as he subtly straightened his spine, intimidating even when seated. "And yet you are still here. Exactly where I wanted you to be, at the precise moment that I designated." He leaned forward a fraction, his enjoyment increasing with her understanding. "Are you feeling the heat of the flames yet, little mote?"

"You wanted me to come."

"I wanted you here, now. And so here you are."

Leia licked her lips, clamping down on the sliver of nerves that slid through her. "Because you're afraid. Of the threat that a Jedi still represents to you."

"Because you are an inconvenience, regardless of the Jedi. One of several petty nuisances which flit at the edge of my vision, to be settled today. Nothing more."

Leia glanced out to the darkness of space beyond, a brief, painful flare lighting in her chest at the sight of the ongoing battle…

And Palpatine leaned back, his grin splitting wide, voice taunting. "Ah, she begins to comprehend the situation. The pitiful gullibility of her failure."

"I understand the gravity of the situation. But that simply pushes me to prevail."

"Only that? It pushes me to triumph utterly and absolutely, at any cost. To decimate and slaughter, and reign supreme."

Leia found a little more surety at the needless brinksmanship that the Sith spouted, and stepped forward a few fast paces, feeling altogether too vulnerable on the narrow walkway which bridged that unfathomable drop. "No matter the reason that I'm here, I've come to stop you. The Alliance has already taken your Empire from you. Now we'll make sure that you never have the opportunity to regain it."

He leaned back, chuckling. "You haven't the power, little thing. Master Yoda didn't, Master Windu didn't, Master Kenobi didn't…yet now, somehow, you think you have? You are the final lamb to the slaughter, child…and I love the smell of blood."

She was across the bridge as he spoke, yet still somehow feeling that the threat was equally before and behind her. Glancing back, she saw Sidious jerk forward in his seat from the corner of her eye and snapped about to face him, hand lifting to her lightsaber at her belt. He settled once more, and she held her ground in the space before the high flight of steps, unwilling to be forced to fight at a disadvantage.

Still wary, her mind went back to Luke—to his curtailed warning as he'd followed her shuttle, knowing exactly where she was going. Was that the threat she felt tingling at her back, now?

She glanced about, and up the long flight of steps, aware that if she tried to fight Sidious there, from a lower vantage point, she would be at an untenable disadvantage…and still that threat whispered behind her. "Where's Luke?"

"Luke…" Sidious tilted his head, tone mocking. " _Luke_? Such…familiarity." He paused, eyes narrowing; testing. "What do you believe you know, little Jedi?"

She scowled, raising her chin. "I know that I'm taking him out of here. I came for you, but I'm taking him with me when I leave. I _am_ taking him with me."

"Indeed?" That slow, knowing smile ate into her conviction. "Do you wish to understand him? Truly understand?" He leaned forward a fraction, voice smoothing persuasively. "I can show you, I can share with you. Help you to comprehend why he did all that he did."

"He did it because of you."

Sidious shook his head slowly. "I merely opened the gate. He chose to walk through. If you wish to understand him, if you want to know what lies within his soul, then you must do the same. If you want to save him, pull him from the very center of the dragon's dark den, then child…you must step inside, to reach him. Until you do that—until you have the resolve to walk into the maw to bring him out—you'll never truly touch him. You'll never drag him free."

"He'll walk free of his own will, one day."

Palpatine shook his head slowly, voice loaded with bored disappointment. "Blind hope from a credulous child. He's lived his life in that dark and onerous lair. Every night he lays down with demons which you could not possibly understand, and he knows it. Knows that you are forever on the outside looking in, because despite all your words and your _good intentions_ , you don't have the courage to take a single step into the Darkness…do you?"

"He won't be saved that way," Leia held.

"Salvation," Palpatine rolled the word about his mouth as if it was utterly alien to him. "So much willfully blind arrogance in a single word. Such smug assumption. But please, by all means, try—" He paused theatrically, voice a dry taunt. "Oh, wait…you did. He stood among you, he ate your food, he shared your lives…and he walked away. Returned to me."

"Because you forced him. You framed him for—"

"He could have gone anywhere, child. He had a galaxy to run in, yet he came here. To me." The Sith leaned back languorously. "Let me tell you again why you failed, since you seem pitifully unwilling to comprehend." His head tilted, as if imparting patently obvious facts. "If you want to save a drowning man, you must first jump into the water. You cannot paddle at the shoreline and offer empty sophistries."

"This, from a man who tells tales of dragon's caves and deep water?" Leia countered.

"You wish me to speak more plainly, child?" Again that smile with a raptor's pearly teeth. "Then I will do so. You cannot save him because he does not trust you. You, who stands in self-righteous judgment from your high tower without once having stepped foot on the harsh ground that he must walk. He rightly believes that you cannot comprehend what he is, and worse, that you do not wish to try. The limits of your commitment are painfully obvious. How can you possibly lead him from a labyrinth that you yourself have never walked, and so cannot begin to understand?"

"I understand more that you realize, your Excellency. I see the strings that you're trying so hard to pull, and I won't be drawn in by them."

"Drawn in?" The Sith straightened a fraction, amused. "You think that's what this is? No little Jedi, again you misunderstand. I do not seek to draw you in or trick you. I am simply amused at your predicament. I have no need for another advocate—the one I hold has power enough for me."

"But you don't, do you?" Leia asserted, gathering her wits. "You don't hold him at all. You barely maintain control, any more. Is that what this is? Some desperate bid to regain that which you've lost?" Her head tipped in comprehension as his ocher eyes narrowed. "Oh, I've touched a nerve. You've lost control, and I'm the key to regaining it. So the real question here is…how?"

Strong fingers tightened like claws against the arms of his throne as Palpatine glared down at Leia, shoulders tightening, bare fury sparking about him to Leia's sharp senses.

"You're very much mistaken, child. You're nothing. What little chance you had, you have wasted already. You're the prey who's caught and being toyed with. You're a brief moment's amusement for a predator of true power. Let me illustrate that." He straightened a fraction, eyes never wavering from her, and Leia braced in preparation, hand going to her lightsaber. Knowing he was serious, expecting him to launch forward—

Instead his arm, which had laid across the wide armrest of the throne he sat in, straightened downwards as his wrist twisted, palm open—and from the wide sleeve of his ornate cloak a lightsaber hilt fell in a flicker of motion into his hand.

But instead of lighting it he looked to Leia's left.

"Mara…kill her."

As he spoke he threw out his hand and the hilt launched through the air. Leia turned, expecting to see a new foe who had crept from hiding in silence—

Instead the woman who had come here as her ally sprinted forward across the bridge of the turbolift, reaching out to snatch the hilt and ignite it with a vicious cry.

Leia backpedalled, hand scrabbling to free her lightsaber as she avoided the first blow only by twisting to the side, still reeling from shock. She had her saber ignited to bat away the second slicing back-cut which Mica— _Mara_ —launched as she'd passed. And as her opponent caught her weight and spun about to face Leia it was like a veil had dropped, and she sensed the power of the Force surge through her unexpected foe as a dense knot of cool, focused determination.

This was a trained duelist, confident in her ability, unafraid. Resolute.

Still reeling, Leia made several fast, small steps on the spot to set her weight and center her thoughts, bringing her blade to center-front as her unexpected adversary loosened her shoulders in a rolling shrug, weight to the balls of her feet, the red saber in her hand growling a low hum, its ruby tones reflected in her titian hair.

Titian hair…

Luke's warning, relayed through Han over a year ago, snapped to the forefront of Leia's thoughts, dredged from long-forgotten depths of the upheavals that had followed:

 _Beware of redheads_.

.

.

.

.


	32. Chapter 32

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER 32**

.

.

"Woah!" Han wrenched his yoke wildly to port as an out-of-control TIE fighter spiraled out of the pack of dogfights which crowded the narrow run of space between Imperial and Rebel capital ships, veering close enough that its flat planar wing spanged against his TIE Interceptor's shield.

The run of proximity warning lights which flickered across his cockpit console was instantly overwhelmed by the flare of an explosion as the damaged TIE caught another shot and exploded, throwing debris across Han's path as he powered through it, trusting to his Interceptor's shields.

Close on his tail he could see Luke's freighter, the _Millennium Falcon_ , marked as a spook in his TIE's HUD because it was flying under a Rebel transponder code. Risking splitting his attention, he flicked a few markers and ID'd it as friendly in his own HUD, before bringing his eyes back up to the tail-lights of the eight TIE Interceptors between him and the transport they needed to take out—the one carrying Palpatine's clones.

"What the hell do I identify _them_ as?" he muttered to himself as he stared at the Imperial fighters, aware of the fact that the moment he opened fire on the clone transport they'd all turn on him.

The comms were down again from wide-range jamming, so everyone was flying blind anyway—or flying by eye, picking out opponents based on ship-types. At least his target was one of only two Imperial transports in the entire fight—and since this was the one with the TIE escort and heading for the Death Star, Han was betting that this was the one carrying the clones. He glanced to his HUD, wondering what kind of firepower the Rebels had fitted out the _Falcon_ with, to use it today. It must be pretty tooled, if it was the main—

A bright splash of red fire flared against his shields, making him yank his TIE into a tight flip as he cursed. A Rebel X-wing swerved into his rear scope, making a good effort at staying with him as Han inverted his TIE and dropped downward. He would have yelled at Chewie to call the guy off but comms were still jammed, which meant that to every Rebel snub-fighter present his TIE looked like fair game.

He tried another inversion, vectoring thrust to tighten the turn, but the X-wing stayed with him, going a little wider and opening his throttle to try to match his I-TIE's angle.

"Come _on_ ," Han yelled, infuriated at having what was clearly the local talent on his tail, not only taking him further and further from his target, but also matching his moves to the point where Han was beginning to worry that the guy might actually get a shot off.

With no wingman for backup he tried another vectored loop, making near-ninety degrees. Another barrage of bright red seared past in reply, close enough to light his cockpit and initiate proximity warnings across his board.

This was it, this was how he was gonna die; stuck in the wrong fighter on the wrong side of a fight, shot by the guys he was trying to help… Given his life to date, that kinda figured.

He was bracing—still juking his stick, but bracing for the hit—when his HUD showed something dropping in behind him, between himself and his attacker. For a second he stared, mind trying to comprehend why it was ID'd as friendly—

Then he blinked, grinning in realization. "Chewie!"

With no comms, the Wookiee had taken the only path he could to stop Rebel fighter making the killing shot; he'd dropped down between Han and the Rebel assailant, as clear a message as he could give to the unknown X-wing pilot. The snub had already veered off high—probably because he'd had to clear the bulk of the _Falcon_ or risk flying straight into its tail-lights.

Laughing aloud Han slowed a little, coming about, mind already returning to his original goal as he searched the dogfighting for that lone Imperial transpo—

"Son of a _Sith_ …"

It wasn't far from where he'd left it, still guarded by the eight I-TIEs…and right next to the _second_ Imperial transport, both tilting into a slight course correction. The two identical transports—which had already split up before Han had been forced away, thus identifying the clone transport because it alone had been heading for the Death Star—had re-converged. And both were now heading toward the _Executor_.

The constant screech of static in his ear crackled and cleared, and Han wasted no time. "Chewie—which one is it? Did you keep one eye on which transport was headed for the Death Star?"

By the sound of it he'd interrupted the Wookiee mid-rant through his own long string of frustrated curses, but Chewie broke off to howl a negative at Han, followed by a hopeful question.

"Me? I was busy not getting shot. I was facing the other way with an X-wing flyin' up my exhaust!"

The transports were closing for the safety of the Super Star Destroyer, while Han and Chewie were well back. Han pursed his lips against cursing Wookiee life-depts; if Chewie had kept his attention on the transport, he might have been able to have taken a shot. Hell, they might've even had enough time to take both transports out before they made it to the _Executor_. On the other hand, the Wook had just stopped Han getting his ship shot out from under him, so…

They were almost on the tails of the last of the I-TIEs guarding the transports, no decision as to which to aim at made. With eight I-TIEs between them and their target—whichever the Nine Hells it was—Han doubted they'd get more than one pass at this without it getting _very_ messy. And all the time the _Executor_ loomed closer, cutting down their window of opportunity…

.

.

.

.

.

Palpatine leaned forward in eager anticipation, feeling a wide grin of pure pleasure spread his lips as the Jedi woman twisted clear of Jade's first blow.

Perfect! Perfect initiation of the duel—of the greater plan—the Jedi on her back foot already, barely comprehending what was happening, so fast had the switch played out.

The thrum of her blue-bladed saber added to Jade's, the sound reverberating off hard metal walls; the scuff of their feet, the catch of their breaths, the play of their emotions within the Force. Shock, realization, resolve, determination…

Jade lunged forwards, fast on her feet, aggressive in her stance. The Jedi countered and sidestepped nimbly, still reeling, still wasting valuable mental energy on trying to figure who her opponent was.

Palpatine watched in rapt attention, appreciating the cabaret, expert eyes unraveling every move whether made or stayed, calculating strengths and weaknesses.

In a duel such as this technique was everything. A duel between women was a very different phenomenon, the muscular bulk of tricepts, core and thighs replaced by nimble speed. Raw power traded for fine agility. No massive roundhouse swings, no crushing, bone-jarring blows. Without that brute strength their duels hinged on body balance and timing, ballets of deadly precision and split-second co-ordination calculated to set an opponent's flaws against them.

Already Jade was turning within a single step, blade flashing low in a cut to the ankles which the Jedi blocked with a counter-swing designed to both intercept and push her opponent's saber back and up, leaving Jade potentially open.

In a maneuver impossible between heavier opponents, where the counter would have been to force both blades into a potent 180 counter-clockwise swing to take control, Jade angled her shoulders and lifted her wrists higher than both hilts, enabling her to deftly twist the tip of her blade over the Jedi's as both sabers swung upwards.

Again the Jedi was forced to defend, but again she took the incentive and continued the twist to weave the blades together, rotating her own saber inside Jade's defense, play and counter, incredibly fast and tight.

Mara yelled and disengaged, relinquishing a step to extricate her blade and leaving the two paused, the Jedi with her blade held at shoulder-height and to the side, Jade with hers a fraction lower, a textbook counter, picture perfect.

Leia Skywalker risked a brief glance to the side, very much aware that her goal had become her audience, but that there was no way to sidestep this challenge other than to face it head-on—a fact that Jade underlined when she pressed forward with a flurry of fast swings, the energy of the blade sparking ruby red in the low light.

The arena was small, even more so for those who used speed as an advantage, and already Jade was trying to press the Jedi back, to trap her against the curve of the wall. But as Palpatine's grin widened in approval of the tactic the Jedi broke to the side, unwilling to be boxed.

She must have realized by now that her opponent was not a Sith, only a trained adept. In her position, Palpatine would have been so profoundly offended that he would have struck out with the Force alone to crush his opponent, skull and body, heart and bone… but ah, the _honorable_ Jedi.

Again she glanced to Palpatine, and he could practically hear her making the calculation; if she came for him now he was unarmed—might this be the best chance she would get to defeat a true Sith Master?

"Child, you have confidence, I'll grant you that," Palpatine grinned.

He could intervene at any time, of course; turn the tide of the battle in Jade's favor. But for all concerned—those who survived, at least—it was imperative that he not interfere. That the duel and its conclusion be entirely self-contained.

Jade came in with a side blow which the Jedi slapped down hard, knocking Jade's scarlet saber down to sizzle into the deck at their feet. Hands trapped low unless she wished to relinquish her saber, Mara instead stepped in close and, her arm resting against the Jedi's, rolled her weight bodily over the Jedi's shoulders, making the woman stagger forward and down a step, her advantage lost.

Feet touching down at the other side of the unbalanced Jedi, Jade moved fast to bring her blade—loosed when the Jedi had stumbled—to a tenable position. Buying time, she brought her elbow up fast behind her and into the Jedi's neck, the lightsaber in her trailing hand still coming about.

The Jedi staggered back with a brief gasp, head jolting, her lightsaber still to the floor where it had held Jade's. Snatching out, Jade grabbed the woman's ankle and hauled upwards, dropping her to the deck in a hard slam.

Jade lunged forward from her crouch with a fast stab, but this time the Jedi threw out the palm of her hand and Palpatine sensed a rush of Force power as Jade was hit to the center of her ribcage, lifting her bodily and throwing her back.

Palpatine half-rose, caught up in the duel as the pace quickened, enjoying the spectacle. Entertainment of a significance befitting its viewer.

And a fascinating spectacle it would be. A duel of disparate opponents; one fully trained but constrained by those endless Jedi codes, the other a Force adept hampered by incomplete training—but taught by a Sith. No boundaries imposed, no petty rules to bind her. Already their differences shone, a dire and dangerous tragedy in the making, played out for him alone.

The combatants climbed to their feet more slowly, both winded, both wary. Jade glanced to her master, and Palpatine settled again in his throne, watching.

"Seems you'll get no help there," the Jedi said levelly. "But then I suppose that's the norm."

"She needs no help, Jedi," Palpatine raised his voice to be heard across the distance. He wanted no direct communication between Jade and the woman, no chance of insight which might impede the duel. "Just as she needed none when she infiltrated your base and walked among you. Where was your bright light of perception then? A hundred Jedi at the apex of their powers cannot defend against a single Sith acolyte. They never could. You will be no different. You wonder why I do not duel you…I have no need. This was always Jade's fight. Her opportunity to triumph."

He looked to Jade as he said the last, letting the expectation in his voice spur her on. Squaring her jaw she turned back to the duel, dour determination a pure note within the Darkness.

The Jedi reset her weight in preparation as Jade stalked forward, ruby saber swinging a low curve to her side, shoulders tensing. Pulling her blue saber to a ready-stance the Jedi waited, body balanced, already poised for the next exchange.

With a single skip-step—an inexcusable forewarning to Palpatine's expert eye—Jade took the fight to her opponent, her aggression compensating for her inexperience. The blades sparked in the dim light, their growl reverberating off hard metal walls, the air charged with the smell of their coruscating heat.

Jade pushed forward in a rush of fast blows, the fierceness of her attack forcing her opponent into retreat as she gave ground to meet them. The two women were close to the same height, both at the peak of their physical ability, nimble in close quarters, blades kept in contact to feel the other's intent and anticipate their move, trying to stay one step ahead of the killing blow.

They covered the limited space of the main floor quickly, the Jedi in danger of being boxed in once again, her back to the yawning void of the shaft which dropped over a hundred storeys from the head of the Command Tower deep into the bowels of the massive station.

She made a fast, horizontal cut, then without hesitation backed up onto the first of the capped-off power conduits which lined the deep drop, swaying slightly as she fought to hold her balance on the curved covers. Suddenly holding the low ground Jade broke off, and given the split-second's advantage the Jedi flipped in a neat somersault backward across the drop and onto the narrow walkway which ran about the turbolift chute at the shaft's center.

Jade leapt onto the nearest of the dome-topped conduits, and for a moment Palpatine actually thought she might follow her quarry and make a deadly mistake in the process, leaving her open to the slightest Force-push which would break the arc of her jump, or allowing the Jedi to step in and make a single cutting blow as Jade landed, cleaving her in two—

But she bent her knees and broke her forward momentum, probably realizing the same and stopping the impulsive move in time, leaving the Jedi alone on the narrow walkway to the center of the shaft whilst she strode its outer side, heading for the walkway to renew the duel.

"My Sith among you," Palpatine crowed into the brief respite, seeking to stir. "There in your Rebel nest all along, working to bring you to this moment. Two, in fact! An acolyte and an advocate. One you did not see at all, the other you were so willingly, woefully, accepting of, because you sought a connection. You sought a bond that you had not earned, through which to steal what was mine. Yet still you came here today, blinded to the Darkness by your precious Light."

The Jedi looked to him, her concentration utterly broken, by what precisely he didn't know— but she turned back to Jade with wide eyes.

.

.

She'd been ignoring the taunts entirely. It hadn't been hard. All of Leia's concentration had been centered on the duel, as the pace racked faster. And then that final dig from Sidious' diatribe, invoking Luke…and so much had dropped into place, widening Leia's eyes in realization.

 _Beware of_ _redheads_ : Luke had given her that warning, through Han, over a year ago. He had known, even then—had known that this woman would be placed within the Alliance, with Leia as her target. She blinked, heart skipping in realization of Sidious' taunts: and he'd been there…Luke had been there onboard the _Kathol's Pride_ when Mica— _Mara_ —had been among them.

"You!" Leia gasped the word. "Was it you he was trying to protect, when he left?"

The thought burned, scalding to its logical conclusion: he'd lied—in the cell, Luke had lied to Leia, to protect this woman. Palpatine's agent.

The woman didn't answer, green eyes narrowed to slits as she stalked forward in silence, gaze skipping her opponent, looking only for an opportunity to pounce.

A dense knot tied tight within Leia, fear and suspicion entwined. Had Luke served his Master, even then? Had it all been a long-played game—trust, misdirection, incentives, inducement? All part of the greater plan to bring Leia to this point, now?

"Did he know?" The words were out before she'd thought to censor them, her betrayal audible. "Did he know you were there?"

Had everything Luke had done been for Sidious, on Sidious' command? Had he consciously set the lure to bring Leia here today, knowing she was his sister?

"They all dance in the Darkness to my tune, little Jedi. Even you. You think the Light will save you, but it isolates you all the more."

Leia stared, breath hitching, feeling just that; isolated, under siege. Ben's warnings not to underestimate Sidious rang in her head, pulling her down further.

It took her thoughts to her old Master in that moment; to his wry, unruffled poise. To the dry dignity of inveterate age that had enabled him to hold his center in any storm. In that spark of memory she rekindled the flame of her own composure—and as the glow warmed, it cast light into the shadows:

Too fast—the wily Sith had stepped in too fast, practically snatching at the opportunity to gloat as he rose, grinning, pulling her on through her own doubts.

Caught up in the fear of the moment, afraid of being hurt, was she allowing herself to be led? Palpatine had already admitted that he'd lured her here…was he leading her, still? Was she letting him?

She took a breath; searched for her own center. Brought to mind every memory of her brother—of his turmoil of carefully-masked uncertainty and tamped-down doubts. Of the compassion that still burned deep inside of him, despite everything. Of the natural connection that each was so willing to allow tie them to the other. Of the innate, bone-deep faith she'd felt from the very moment she'd met him.

He hadn't betrayed her…not her.

She'd let her actions be led by assumptions before, after Ben's death. She wouldn't make the same mistake now.

"You want this," she realized, looking from Sidious to Mara. "Why her, not you? You want this duel—why?"

A brief play of frustration hardened Sidious' features as his lip lifted in a sneer, then it was gone, hidden beneath that viper's smile. "I told you, it amuses me."

"No," Leia said. "No, you need this, need us to—"

His eyes flicked away as Leia felt the focused flare of intention within the Force, and braced—

From above and behind her there was a rending screech of stressed metal, then the walkway at roof level crumpled and ripped free to one side of the chamber, dropping in a cleaving arc towards her.

Primed, she jumped clear, using the Force to enhance the distance. Sparks from trailing power pipes flared hot against her skin, then were gone, dragged past with the momentum of the falling walkway.

She landed lightly to the center of the chamber, one hand to the floor—

And ducked, throwing herself bodily to the side in an awkward roll to avoid Mara's incoming slash, timed to catch her when vulnerable. It growled overhead, singeing her hair as she rolled.

Then she was on her feet, saber jumping in her hand as it flared into life to catch the incoming strike as Mara closed, not a moment lost. Her feet and her body and her weight were all hopelessly disordered, but she blocked the saber blade close to the hilt, so had the power to twist her blade over the scarlet beam and wrench them both to the side, nearly ripping Mara's free of her grip.

It bought her a moment, and she scrabbled back and set herself, weight balanced, thoughts racing, eyes flicking to the Sith who sat on his self-appointed throne at the head of the distant steps, grinning.

Why—why did Sidious want this; to place an acolyte up against a Jedi, when the end result was weighted so heavily in Leia's favor? Why place her in harm's way, when Luke had—

Luke; Luke had given so much to protect this woman. Had given everything he'd so desperately wanted up, in order to ensure that this woman was safe. Why do all that, when he'd once actively warned Leia of the threat: _Beware of redheads_.

 _Redheads_

All that Han had told her came back to Leia in a rush—about her brother's clandestine affair with a red-haired Imperial officer. Luke had denied it, of course. But what if everything Han had said was right…except her identity?

An unknown woman; a connection so deep that Luke had walked away from Palpatine and the Empire, to protect her. Walked away from everything he'd ever known…and then walked away from the Alliance, to protect her a second time.

Was that the reason Luke had so stoically taken the burden of guilt for the killings which he had nothing to do with?

He'd been protecting Mica: _Mara_.

With a yell Mara launched forward, thrusting the point of her lightsaber directly to Leia's throat.

Bewildered, mind spinning with possible truths and motives, Leia jerked aside, her own saber coming up a fraction too slow, so that though Mara's blade missed its killing blow, for the first time it made contact. Within a thrum of power it sizzled through the fabric of Leia's shoulder to snatch against her flesh, the searing pain making her cry out as she stumbled back.

Did she know? Did this woman know that Leia and Luke were siblings? Was she manipulating Luke as coldly as she had Leia, at Palpatine's behest?

A burst of scarlet fury rose up within Leia, making her lunge forward, saber blade whirring to form a wall of light before her so that when it made contact with Mara's red blade it jarred fiercely, knocking it aside. With a yell Leia snatched out, grabbing Mara's wrist as it dropped past her to hold the scarlet blade down as she whipped her own upwards in a fast strike.

Mara let out a surprised grunt as she arched her back and neck to avoid the upwards strike, crumpling her knees to drop down beneath the blow. Pulled downwards by her hold on Mara's wrist Leia stumbled, her weight dropping to one knee, forced to concede her hold.

Mara twisted, lashing out with a wild blow to protect her side as she rolled deftly up to her knees—not fast enough. Still crouched, holding her blue saber one-handed, Leia brought her blade around into a wide low-level swing, shoulders forced close to the ground to gain power, hand lifting from the deck in counterweight as she swung her saber in a wide horizontal sweep that Mara couldn't possible counter—

The flare of eager anticipation that lit within the Force in that moment rolled over her in a hot wave, its locus to her back, where Sidious stood.

And in a flash of comprehension Leia faltered, blade skipping up and over, when it could have made a resounding blow.

If she killed Mara, even in self-defense—if she killed the woman for whom Luke had walked away from Sidious, the Empire, his entire life, to date—it would drive a barbed wedge between herself and her brother. Perhaps irreparably, given all that Luke had done for this woman.

Given the unexpected respite Mara scrabbled backwards as Leia stared, mind rushing to keep up with tumbling realizations. An acolyte, a Jedi and a Sith, all being played by a Master, every possible outcome to his own benefit.

Mara rose, head tilted, eyes dangerous. Ready to fight.

To fight…not to die. But if she knew her master's plan, then she knew that for it to work to his benefit, the only successful conclusion would be her own death…and this wasn't a woman looking to martyr herself.

Another thought followed quickly on the heels of the first, as Leia began to realize just how devious Sidious was—how willing he was, by his own admission, to use everything and everyone around him. And there, _there_ were the self-serving schemes of a true Sith. Because if Mara didn't know the truth—if she didn't know the connection between Leia and Luke—then she too was a pawn, here.

Just like Leia, even if she won, she lost. If she did manage to kill Leia, then the wedge would be driven just as effectively between Mara and Luke, isolating him once again. Driving him back to his Master, angry, betrayed and deeply wounded. Sentiments a Sith Master could use.

A resounding victory for Sidious, at the cost of everyone around him. If he could keep his intentions hidden from the participants.

Mara was coming forward in wary steps now, looking to renew the fight. Leia stared, backstepping, breathing heavily, aware that she was still as trapped as the moment that she'd come in here, though the ropes of the snare had changed.

What did she have that could possibly change this woman's mind? Mara was like Luke; a lifetime under the thrall of this man, this mind. This iron will. And Leia was her enemy, already once the architect of her master's demise, and here today with that same intent. Nothing that she said would convince Mara of the truth. It had to come from his lips.

It had to be Sidious, who convicted himself by his own admission.

She turned on him, hand raising to point as she yelled. "I know—I know what you're trying to do!"

He grinned, ocher eyes aglow with accusation. "The petty little complication who thinks she knows all! Yet you still believe you can take what's mine from me?!"

"Is that what she did?" Leia yelled, pointing to Mara—turning Sidious' argument against him. She sensed the barest flicker of uncertainty beside her, and pushed on. "Is that what this is—punishment; revenge?"

Sidious straightened in his throne, that sneer audible in his voice. "You think me so small-minded? This is power, child. Strategy and conquest on a scale befitting a Sith. You think small lives and petty sentiment have any part of that? There is only one objective, only one intent."

"And this is what happens when we don't play by your rules," Leia nodded.

Sidious only smiled serenely. "Child, you all do. Whether you want to or not. Whether by argument or abstinence or willing compliance."

"You can't own a life," Leia said steadfastly. "Any life. You can't manipul—"

"I _own_ him!" Sidious hissed. "I own him, as I owned his father. My power, my prerogative to direct as _I_ command. You think you can rework the weapon that I had created for your own ends? You think—"

He broke off, head and eyes turning away, attention completely elsewhere.

Leia sensed the burst of shock that emanated from him unchecked in that moment, sufficient to stop him mid-diatribe, and wondered at the cause.

.

.

He was coming…the boy was coming here!

Palpatine stood, hands clutching to fists at the realization, the taunt he'd been spouting forgotten beneath greater concerns.

Thoughts turning for a moment on his advocate, as he'd harangued the Jedi for trying to steal him, he'd realized that Antilles was close; too close. Onboard the Death Star, his intent a dense knot of purpose which gathered to the edge of Palpatine's awareness like distant clouds darkening.

How did the boy do this—how did he _always_ manage to appear precisely where Palpatine did not want him, at any given time? It was as if he set out specifically to impede his own Master's intentions on a daily basis. There was an entire galaxy for him to roam in, a battle unfolding in space about them right now with endless diversions expressly placed to draw the boy's attention for the brief time that was necessary for Palpatine's plans to play out to completion…and yet he was here. Again. As he had been with Kenobi on Coruscant. As he had been with Vader on Corsin. Always— _always_ —he contrived to be in the exact place to cause maximum disruption at any given time.

The plan required that the youth be aware of this battle only as its decisive conclusion rolled out through the Force, not close enough to intervene. The act _had_ to be unstoppable. One more in a lifetime of events over which the youth had no control, unable to do anything save sense its dire and harrowing effect.

No pre-emption, no intervention, no choice. No control—ever.

A second more, as Palpatine stared, eyes unfocused… Because this was no child of eleven, tired and hurt, mind mired and wired and overwhelmed; the tiny little storm-cloud that Palpatine himself had seeded with paralyzing fear and desperation.

This was the first rumble of thunder as the storm closed in. This was the seething surge of a tornado in the making, whipped ever fiercer by opposing pressures, roiling and twisting and turning back in on itself and sucking in the very air about it.

Palpatine had moments to evaluate and calculate, every second narrowing the options.

"Mara! Go to intercept—" he broke of, inwardly cursing. If he sent Jade to stop Antilles now—not that she even could, save to invoke any vestige of past sentiment—then all of his plans would go awry. The contest that he had so carefully maneuvered into place would be broken apart before it had played out to its required finale.

He blinked, fuming, aware of Jade's attention dangerously split between her master and the duel.

Too close—the boy was too close. What had moments before been an exhilarating spectacle for his personal amusement and advantage, had now become an inconvenience—more; a dangerous risk, if his involvement was discovered.

For a moment longer Palpatine wavered, unwilling to relinquish so much scheming…

But the situation had already complicated almost beyond control. The boy was distrustful enough of his place with his Master; best not to add fuel to the fire. He would salvage what he could, recoup only the most necessary, the most immediate: that which would ensure his own survival, no matter what.

He'd worked long and hard to bring his killer here; the last Jedi, the final threat. One way or another, she died today.

He glanced to the comlink set into the arm of his throne, mind racing to calculate new paths and priorities. He needed his clones to be re-routed to what had suddenly become the safer vessel. He needed to ensure that if necessary, he had access to one of them…

And he needed Antilles delayed.

.

.

.

.

.

Shira watched the battle unfold from the bridge of the _Executor_ , fingering the Imperial medal she had taken to wearing on a short black military ribbon tight to her upright collar. Since Ubiqtorate officers wore no rank on their black uniform save for a simple double-bar at its collar, she had asked for the right to wear the Order—an embossed Imperial insignia laid over the eight-pointed star of the Ubiqtorate—to identify her Admiral's status.

Beside her, Admiral Griff repeatedly berated the attack as pitifully one-sided. To Shira's eyes—and in the more obvious tremor rattling the deck plates beneath her feet—the _Executor_ was taking damage. But Griff had reassured that it was nothing of true relevance save in the inconvenience of repairs, and Fondor was only a lightspeed jump away.

Aware that this was her first large-scale command in battle, she'd murmured in quiet words the order to calculate for a jump to lightspeed…just in case.

Of more importance in this moment, the two transports carrying the clones were being targeted by the Rebels—and her master wouldn't tolerate failure there. Even knowing this, she still felt a small twinge of regret at having placed many of those she trusted most about the shuttles. She'd done so knowing that they'd give everything to protect them on her command, but already was beginning to weigh up that fact against the loss of loyal and trustworthy support.

"Ma'am, I have an incoming message from the Command Tower, voice only."

Instantly Shira pulled the small comlink from her breast pocket, nodding at the comms officer to patch it through: one did not receive a communiqué from the Emperor on open channels.

"This is Admiral Brie." She walked forward to the head of the bridge for privacy as she spoke, staring out towards the Death Star through the swarm of close dogfights.

As ever, Palpatine did not waste time on formalities. "Antilles is onboard the Death Star. He's likely making his way to the Command Tower. Delay him."

Shira frowned. "Excellency?"

"Where are the Rhen Var transports?"

Shira blinked, struggling to keep up. "Transports? Th-the transports are en-route, Excellency. The estimated time of the clone transpo—"

"Change its course. Both transports are now to dock with the _Executor_."

"Both?"

"The transport containing my cloning cylinders will remain in the docking bay there, with all entry ramps sealed, until I give permission for it to continue onwards to the Death Star. The only person to be allowed access is Mara Jade, who is en-route to you now. You will make all appropriate arrangements immediately. Do you understand?"

"Yes Excellency. Commander Antilles…?"

"Antilles has landed his fighter onboard the Death Star, and is to be delayed." There was the bite of annoyance in Palpatine's voice, at being forced to repeat himself. "You will orchestrate the Death Star's internal security from your present position."

"Delayed from what?"

"From reaching the Command Tower."

"…You want me to _stop_ him reaching your position?"

"Now," was the simple directive, before the comm cut to silence.

Shira stared out across the void, unsure why this would fall to her, and not be controlled by Palpatine himself—why it was necessary at all.

Was it a test, this impossible task? Palpatine wanted her to stop Antilles from this distance, reacting after the fact only as information filtered back to her. Then relay orders back to the Death Star, which would trickle down the chain of command, wasting seconds every time. This was a Sith, running on full power. This was a force of nature with a conscious will.

Why ask her to do this now, this way?

Unless he had no choice…

Her last memory of Palpatine and Antilles had been in the receiving chamber onboard the Death Star, the confrontation so charged that Palpatine had hurled Force lightening at his own advocate—and Antilles, in a fit of fury, had slapped it away. Each had held their ground, the confrontation bare moments from escalating…but both had backed down, their reasons unspoken.

Shira stared, eyes tracking the dark penumbra of the Death Star, then drawn to the two transports to the edge of the field of battle, thoughts rushing to analyze the fast-moving flow of events.

Aware of attentive eyes on her, she turned about and walked briskly back towards the main walkway, looking down into the crew pit. "Lieutenant Cole, track down the whereabouts of General Antilles onboard the Death Star."

"Ma'am, comms are intermittent at best—there's a lot of jamming going on. The frequency you were just using has already been compromised by the Rebels."

"Keep trying. And contact the Captain of the Guard. Tell him I've been authorized on the Emperor's command to mobilize ten units of stormtroopers. They need to be sited between the upper TIE landing bays and the Command Tower. I want constant updates… But they're to act on my command alone."

Sands were shifting, and she needed to be prepared to amend her own plans accordingly, at a moment's notice.

.

.

.

.

.

Uncomfortable in the stolen Imperial Trooper's uniform, Feiner glanced to the far side of the corridor three turns away from the turbolift that the Jedi Leia Skywalker had entered, where Kegg's rangy shoulders didn't quite fill the Imperial Officer's uniform he wore. Swallowing, Feiner glanced again down the long span of the dour gray corridor.

He had no idea what was going on wherever that turbolift had alighted, but here, the corridors were still and empty…which was just as well. A lone stormtrooper and a low-level officer just standing around in a corridor would be a little hard to explain, if anyone asked.

He glanced back to the deactivated enclision grid to the far end of the corridor, chewing the inside of his lips as he did so. He and Kegg had spent a fraught few minutes pulling the activators from the panel after Mica had deactivated it whilst they were still in the control room, to gain access to and from the turbolift. So now they were just waiting. Waiting was the worst; he'd rather do anything than—

The first distant shot echoed, bouncing off the curve of the wall, coming from beyond the turn in the corridor.

Gesturing, Commander Kegg drew his sidearm as he took a few fast steps forward, trying to glance around the slow curve of the wall without being seen.

Another shot sounded, a distance away…then three more. Then the enclision grid that would have cut the entrance to the turbolift off entirely hummed, lights in its wall panel flickering briefly then dying, unable to activate.

Checking his blaster, Feiner watched Kegg lift his wrist to speak into the comlink strapped there, on the open channel they'd set. "Thaler? Thaler, you read me? Come in?"

"Thaler here." The voice came in clear through Feiner's earpiece.

"Is that you guys, running towards us?"

"Sir?"

Feiner glanced back down the corridor as he listened, hands tightening around his blaster rifle as the unseen fracas got louder.

"Are you on the move?" Kegg asked.

"No, sir, all quiet here."

"Scalice, come in?"

"All clear here, Commander," the woman replied tightly.

Feiner exchanged confused glances with Kegg, who spoke again into his wrist comlink. "We have a firefight coming towards us here, if it's not you, then—"

Kegg broke off as footfalls sounded to the far end of the long corridor, moving fast. " _Kuso_!" He backstepped quickly towards Feiner, looking for a position of greater cover as he nodded in confirmation. "Stormtroopers, about a dozen, coming this way!"

"Do they know we're here?" Feiner backed up a few steps, but there was really nowhere to go. They couldn't retreat; their job was to hold the corridors from the turbolift clear. Pressing back against the small inset which marked a locked doorway for the scant cover it gave, he braced—

"Wait…if they've come for us, who are they firing at?"

Then the rarest of sounds grated through the air along with the foot-falls—a low thrum deep enough to reverberate beneath Feiner's ribs, making his heart skip.

"Shit— _shit_! They have a Sith with them!"

It wasn't enough that they threw a full squad of stormtroopers at two Rebels; no, they had to send in a frikkin' Sith too!

The lights beyond the turn of the corridor flickered and doused, making the first ricochets bright as they bounced around the corner, their energy spent.

Feiner hauled his gun up as Kegg pressed back into the doorway in front of him, the only other cover.

That deep, resonant growl of the lightsaber altered cadence, and he heard a brief, truncated yelp, then a meaty thud that sounded way too heavy to be anything but deadly.

For a brief second some impartial part of Feiner's brain wondered again who they were already fighting…then the first stormtrooper rounded the corner, blaster lifted.

Feiner reacted instantly, his blaster bolt hitting the stormtrooper squarely in the back— _the back?!_

Another three troopers were already rounding the corner, their blasters lifted, recoil kicking the troopers' arms as they fired… _down the corridor they'd just come_.

They backed towards Feiner and Kegg without even looking, their entire attention on the hallway they'd come from.

And then a yell, and a fully-armored stormtrooper was thrown at shoulder-height into the far wall at the corner, as if a charge had silently detonated, effecting him alone, hurling him backward. He hit hard, armor splintering as others stumbled past him, still firing down the curve of the corridor.

What the _hell?!_

More stormtroopers backed around the corner in a pack, none looking Feiner's way, their entire attention on the corridor they'd come down. Another trooper let out a truncated yelp as he was hurled up against the join of the wall and ceiling, limbs and armor snapping, blaster somehow ripping free of his grip to flare brightly as its energy pack exploded.

Flinching back, Feiner closed his eyes from the bright glare—and heard again that bass reverberation that grated through the thickening air and crawled up his spine. When he opened his eyes the shadowed turn of the hallway was illuminated bright scarlet, the thrum of the lightsaber ominously close.

Stormtroopers fell back past him as the tip of the blade emerged at the turn of the corridor, sulphur-bright—

And the oxygen seemed to drain from the air as the Sith stalked forward, dark clothes swallowing the light around him, hair wild, expression stormy.

Antilles, the Emperor's enforcer.

As the stormtroopers passed Feiner without slowing, the last one lifted his blaster and fired—at the Sith. He fired _at the Sith_ who paced inexorably forward, eyes on the troopers alone.

That pulsing blade lifted so fast that it was a wide sweep of bright scarlet, intersecting with the shot in a flare of light. The Sith's other hand came up without hesitation, fingers grasping, and the trooper lifted clear of the floor and was thrown to the side, head snapping back, arms flailing. He hit the wall with a sickening smack that bent his body direly, then was heaved invisibly in, limbs loose. The Sith's blade snapped out to the side so that the stormtrooper was impaled, then cut a sidewards path free through the twitching corpse as it slumped down three paces away from Feiner, who stared, shocked to stillness, his finger lax on the trigger of his gun, its barrel to the floor.

For a moment as he strode by, the Sith's head tilted, preternaturally bright eyes taking Feiner in. Time slowed to match the broken thud of his own heart as Feiner stared, back pressed to the wall, mouth dry, the singed and smoking air cast bright scarlet.

The youth was no taller than him, probably younger; it was hard to tell…but the very air in the corridor seemed to bend in about him, the moment darken, the shadows thicken, draining every last vestige of Feiner's willpower and nerve into itself. All that fury and focus dragged the energy in to some point at the Sith's core and compressed it ever denser like the locus of a storm, immutable, effortlessly formidable.

Another blaster flash made Feiner recoil, and the heightened moment was broken as the lightsaber blade flashed to intercept, those baleful eyes dismissing him as they turned away, loosing Feiner's heart to drum hard against his ribs as he stared, jaw loose.

The thrum of the blood-red blade changed pitch as it passed, snatching another bright bolt from the air, its power a fraction of the threat embodied in the man who held it.

Then the cacophony of noise and fury was gone, the corridor empty once more, dark smoke roiling at ceiling level and mingling with adrenaline to burn the back of Feiner's throat as he stared, throat locked, eyes wide.

In the stillness a light fritzed, casting charred armor and twisted bodies into fulgid relief.

"What the hell was that?!" Feiner husked past the lock in his throat.

"That," Kegg said hoarsely from beside him, "was the luckiest day of our life."

.

.

.

.


	33. Chapter 33

.

.

.

 **CHAPTER 33**

.

.

Peripherally aware of the wildly fluctuating battle which played out in space about him as TIEs and snub-noses jockeyed for a kill, Han stared at two Imperial transports, one of which was their target, the other an irrelevant support craft…both identical in every way.

He glanced down to the cockpit display within his own TIE, triggering the HUD inside his helmet visor to scroll a brief run of statistics on the two identical transports. He really should've logged the freighter's ID transponders before they'd merged.

A TIE shot past close overhead, trailing bright orange flames as it burned off its oxygen, its proximity making Han instinctively twitch his yoke, rolling his I-TIE to the side. Ahead of him the dying TIE fighter clipped one of the I-TIEs which guarded the transports, making its shields flare as they failed, and snicking the edge of its wing so that it veered away, limping erratically. All around, the arena was lit by bright forks of laser tracer fire and the brief, red-hot flares of exploding ships, debris and shrapnel hurled in every direction like detonating bombs, making it more dangerous by the second.

Han cursed, attention locked onto the two transports. Until they made it onto the _Executor_ there was everything to play for, and he knew it. Knew that small as the Rebel contingent was, it could still take not just the day but possibly the war, if Leia could take out Palpatine.

 _If_.

He felt a brief, queasy pang twist his stomach at the thought of her onboard the Death Star alone, facing off against Palpatine in his prime…but Luke was there, right? He'd gone there to help her…..right?

He blinked, dragging his thoughts back to the moment, knowing all too well that if they didn't get this right—didn't blow the transport and its clones to dust—then everything else had been for nothing. Because Palpatine would do…whatever the hell Sith _did_ , and come back from the dead. Again.

 _Pick a transport, Solo. You won't get two chances, not with this many I-TIEs around it—pick one of them._

He cursed, blinking sweat from his eyes as he scowled at the two transports, looking for anything to separate them, anything at all. "Farthest one," he yelled into his pickup mic, his channel to Chewbacca already locked in. "It's the farthest one, don't get 'em mixed up!"

In the brief break which was holding out, making comms possible, Chewie's howl came back from onboard the _Falcon_.

"I don't know why," Han admitted. "Because it's on the right, and right is gonna be right!"

There was a pause, then the Wookie called him on his insane logic.

"What d'you mean that only works in Basic—Basic's what I'm speakin', so that's good enough! Which one do you think it is?!"

Chewie howled again, and Han shouted back, exasperation flaring. "Just choose one!"

The Wookiee growled—giving Han the distinct impression that had he been sat next to him, he would've regretted that last outburst—then barked an answer.

Han stared at the identical transports, squinting. "Really? I was just makin' that _right_ stuff up, y'know."

That growl again, deep and throaty and meaningful, and Han shook his head, unseen. "Right one it is."

They were starting to take fire from the _Executor_ now, close enough to come under its more accurate mid-range turrets as the transports powered for safety. Han shook his head. "Too much fire, we need a clear line in."

He could try to take down the transport himself, but he figured that it would have shields to match the importance of its cargo. He'd need a few passes or a clear, uninterrupted run, and with seven I-TIEs running interference, he doubted he'd get the opportunity for either.

The _Falcon_ had heavy turret guns ventral and dorsal, though—big enough to power through even heavy shielding—and Chewie had already said they had missiles. _If_ it could get close and hold its course without harassment.

He grinned, an idea forming as he flinched under the steady barrage, aware that the comms may cut out again at any moment. "How much d'you trust me?"

.

.

.

.

.

Stood before his throne in the Command Tower, Palpatine ground his jaw as he watched all of his carefully planned machinations crumble, because the youth that he had taken and shaped into a weapon was on the very brink of being turned against him. By this slip of a girl who thought she could challenge a Sith Master…or at the very least, induce another to do the job for her.

Did she really think him so easy to oust?

"Mara." He paused, schooling his brief flare of outraged anger into cool control. "Go to the _Executor_. The Rhen Var transports will dock there. Go now."

Jade hesitated, attention flicking to her master, reluctant to leave.

"The ysalamiri," he reminded, and saw her eyes light in understanding.

This responsibility had been assigned to her months earlier, superseding all else. Her master's final failsafe, in her hands. She alone was charged with the task of being close to the clones to destroy the ysalamiri over the oldest upon hearing of her master's demise, enabling him to enter a new body.

Still, she frowned a fraction, eyes going to the Jedi woman, clearly unsure why Palpatine would consider her such a threat.

He shook his head, overriding the question entirely. "There is a stairwell set into the maintenance hatch on the far wall of the chamber, beyond the turbolift." To admit to such things irked, but a more direct route may well bring her into contact with Antilles, and any evidence of Palpatine having engineered the duel between Jade and Antilles' sister needed to be delayed, until it could be properly concealed.

No, better to have Brie slow Antilles' approach, so that he would have enough time to deal with this Jedi himself. It wouldn't be Jade to do the deed, he could see that now. Could see that Kenobi had trained his little padawan too well. It seemed that both Masters had invested great effort in teaching their advocates.

But she was little more than a child—a slip of a thing, barely grown, hamstringed as all her kind were by the endless rules that their ideology enforced. Nothing that a Sith Master in his prime couldn't dispatch with ease.

Though perhaps he would need an injury, to prove the threat to himself? Yes…when he'd killed her, he would inflict some wound upon himself—something visible and significant to convince his advocate of the necessity of defending himself, but not disfiguring.

Jade backed up two fast steps and, with a lunge, threw Palpatine's doused lightsaber hilt to him before retreating, as ordered. Hand outstretched he caught it without looking, then flexed the muscles of his back as he allowed a slow smile of satisfaction to settle on his lips.

He hadn't intended it this way but now, with his plans and his options narrowed to nothing, it would bring a welcome frisson of pure satisfaction. Perhaps it had always been meant to be, that he would bring down the last of the Jedi himself. Would lay the blow that would drain the life from her body, and watch her light fade. Snuff the Jedi contamination from his galaxy, and bathe in the darkness.

They were never truly worthy. Even now, to the last standing, they sought to induce a power that they themselves were afraid to hold. They had known that in truth only a consummate Sith could ever stand against him. That was the only thing that could curb him—and that was why he had worked so very hard to ensure that the few who embodied such a connection had remained always under his control.

This one—she had been secreted away, hidden from his reach…but it would make no difference, in the end. Despite the potential inherent in her blood, the stunted power they had chained her with had no sway here. It was time she learned that.

He set forward slowly, as this slip of a girl braced for the fight… She seriously thought she could hold against him? _Him!_

Perhaps it had never been explained to her just what a Sith in his prime was capable of.

But then surely that was why she'd sought to gain control of her brother. That was why she'd lured the boy in with false promises, knowing that the only other Sith in existence was the sole way she could possibly shatter all of Palpatine's carefully planned machinations, and scattered chaos in their wake.

Head and shoulders above her, he stalked down the red-lit steps, bearing down on an opponent already tiring from the duel. Eyes focused on the Jedi before him, narrowing dangerously in appraisal, he watched her reset her weight, squaring her jaw.

Time was short—he shouldn't toy with her any longer for his own amusement.

.

.

.

.

.

Stood on the bridge of the _Executor_ , her entire attention focused on the Death Star where it loomed portentously within its own shadow, Shira again touched the Imperial medal she wore on a short military ribbon tight to her collar, as she considered her options.

Her mentor, Lord Vader, had always said that after a lifetime in close contact, Antilles could predict the Emperor's reactions. But maybe it was more than that—maybe Antilles thought like Palpatine too. Her own views, Shira knew, were closely aligned to Lord Vader, the Master who had taught her in her formative years. Why not the same with Antilles?

But if it was true, and his mind played out similar to his Master's, then surely Antilles should be more confident, more ambitious? At the very least, he ought to revere Palpatine in the same way that she still did Lord Vader, despite having moved on to the role he had always intended for her, as an Emperor's Hand.

Or not quite the role he had intended, for the woman he had hand-picked and trained.

Little over a year in Palpatine's service before both Vader and the Emperor's death at Corsin, she had still been lying low, maintaining no contact with Lord Vader. Once she had been trusted entirely that would have changed, she knew—though of course nothing had ever been spoken aloud. But Lord Vader had always intended for her to be his eyes and ears close to Palpatine, and she had understood that. The tie of loyalty between Master and apprentice must seem to have been broken, however, so she had dedicated herself to her new life entirely—the perfect Hand.

Her lip twitched at Antilles' claim that Palpatine would have known all that in the first moment he had set eyes on her, but would have been willing to use her all the same… Maybe it was true, maybe not. If so, then it had become a mute point upon the murder of both masters, in the Rebel attack at Corsin. Following that, her loyalty had turned where she'd always known it eventually would; inwards, to herself.

Because Antilles had been right when he'd observed that Lord Vader had injected a healthy dose of ambition into Shira as he'd taught her. Palpatine's return had…complicated things. But Shira was a survivor.

In fact she was far more than that, given even the sliver of an opportunity…

She narrowed her eyes, glancing down into the crew pit. "Lieutenant Cole, have you tracked down the whereabouts of General Antilles?"

"Not specifically, Ma'am. We know he's onboard the Death Star."

"Who's in command over there?"

"Major Exley has the con, Ma'am."

She'd been told once already, but the man's name had slipped her mind. "Why doesn't he have a positive location for General Antilles yet?"

"I'm sorry Ma'am, comms are intermittent at best—there's a lot of jamming going on. Major Exley has confirmed the placement of the stormtrooper details about the Command Tower, as you ordered."

"And General Antilles?"

"The last reference to General Antilles' call-code indicates a positive ID of his TIE having landed in one of the restricted bays close to the Emperor's location. That's all we have at present, Ma'am."

"Has he made contact with anyone onboard the Death Star?"

"…No it doesn't appear so, Ma'am."

Shira remained silent, licking her lips, mind running over her brief discussion with the Emperor—the slight heightening of his voice, the clipped edge to his words as he'd issued the order to stop Antilles.

What did Palpatine believe Antilles was capable of, given the motivation?

"Get a comm to Major Exley. Ask him for an all-point status update on the operation."

"Sorry Ma'am, comms are still down. The last update we had was that a single Rebel ship had been allowed to land and disembark, as per the Emperor's command. In-bay security lenses showed eight people having left the ship. It also stated that a high-level ID code was input into two sets of security doors, separate to but at the same time that they were being sliced—they think it was by one of the Rebel group, but it's an Imperial code."

"The code preface?"

"The preface was VC, Ma'am."

 _Vertex code_. Shira's lip twitched: "Mara."

So the Rebels had an unknown mole amongst them—or they'd had one; Palpatine had said that Mara was now on her way to the _Executor_ , to rendezvous with his incoming clone transport.

A brief scowl took Shira's brow that Mara had fulfilled her mission so competently in delivering the Rebel Jedi, which would likely raise her stock with Palpatine. She knew he had worked to engineer the Rebel Jedi's presence there, today—knew that he'd specifically placed Mara Jade to dovetail into some greater plan.

But then again, Mara was no real threat. Shira's position at the very pinnacle of the Imperial military was indisputable. Look at where she stood right now, on the Bridge of the _Executor_ , no less. Mara Jade was a supremely capable soldier…but that, in a way, was her downfall. Because her skill in the field meant that _in the field_ was where Palpatine would keep her.

Another of Palpatine's protégés with any trace of ambition drained from them.

Shira…she was meant for greater things. For—

"Ma'am, we have… I'm not sure…"

She turned, instantly focused. "Go on?"

"We're getting intermittent comms… We have something from Major Exley regarding the trooper units you placed around the Command Tower, but I'm not…" he trailed off, uncertain how to finish.

"Relay it."

"It's a compressed data report—that got it through the jamming. It…says that there was an altercation in the corridors to the base of the Command Tower where the Emperor is presently located. The Rebels were monitored and allowed to pass through empty corridors, then the Stormtrooper units you placed took up their positions immediately afterwards, but…I've asked for clarification here. It seems from the report that they tried to stop General Antilles from entering the vicinity of the Command Tower—they held to your standing order that he wasn't to be allowed entry—and…Major Exley reports that they lost contact with the three squads who tried to stop him. Another unit is moving to that position now. They—hold on—"

Shira stared as she waited for the update, mind rushing to unravel the facts…

"Ma'am, we have up to date confirmation; four units are down. All dead." He paused, leaning in to his console, one hand covering his ear as he spoke to his unknown counterpart, his other hand flickering across the toggles on his console, trying to clean up the incoming signal. "Can you verify that? You're sure?" He looked to Shira. "The wounds are cauterized strikes, lightsaber-inflicted."

Antilles! Antilles had taken down the stormtroopers placed specifically to stop him. Not one or two men struck down in frustration at the order, but entire units, to clear his path.

To Shira's right Admiral Griff came up beside her, instantly pulled in. "They're sure?"

"Yes Sir."

Griff glanced to Shira, who ignored him entirely, seeking to track the flow of events.

What had pulled Antilles back to the Death Star with such focused motivation, when he'd been very pointedly excluded from the day's events? Did he want to face down Palpatine's ensnared Jedi that badly, or—

A wild idea played out in her head for a fraction of a second, thoughts rushing to take it not simply to its conclusion…but to turn it to her own advantage.

Was she looking at that _sliver of opportunity_ right now? Was Antilles the sleeping dragon that Mara had warned when they'd first met him, waiting only for right impetus to stir? She'd seen him turn on those who'd crossed him more than once—seen that cool façade flare into fiery hostility in the space of a single second.

No, he wouldn't possibly….

The shadow of a smile ghosted her lip, as she remembered again Palpatine having turned on Antilles in his Throne Room onboard the Death Star. Remembered the screeching inpull within the Force as Palpatine had drawn it in and honed it into a weapon of immense power; Force lightening whose energy had lit the chamber as he'd brought his hand up to launch the injurious flare at Antilles—

And Luke…Luke had held his ground and batted it away with a yell of outraged fury. The power which should have hurled him bodily across the chamber had been slapped away as if it had been no more than a child's tantrum.

The sleeping dragon…had all he'd done been nothing more than growl in his slumber, up to now?

"Ma'am, Major Exley is unable to open a channel to the Command Tower. He's asking for orders."

She remained silent and still, ignoring the officer entirely as her earlier question echoed with new meaning:

What was Antilles capable of, given the motivation?

The opportunity.

Just as importantly, in this moment…what was _she_ capable of?

Because Antilles was right when he'd called Shira on that fact that Palpatine would teach her no more, despite her constant cajoling. She had reached as high as she was able to go…whilst both Antilles and Palpatine were alive.

Her thoughts ran ahead of their own volition, coolly calculating. She had to have no traceable involvement whatsoever, her actions utterly unimpeachable, whatever the outcome.

"…Inform Major Exley that General Antilles holds authority second only to Palpatine himself, by the Emperor's own mandate. Clearly the stormtroopers shouldn't have tried to stop him when he was trying to reach the Rebel infiltration team—obviously the entire operation is shifting, and General Antilles is reacting to that." She held her voice steady, chin high even as she rushed to cover her own back. "And try to open a comm-line to General Antilles—inform him that as far as we're aware, the Emperor's last command was for him to stand down. No-one is allowed up into the Tower at this time. He's presumably had more recent orders to the contrary and knows the situation on the ground there. We need to know what exactly both are."

She turned to look stonily ahead, an indicator that the conversation was over, as far as she was concerned. The comms officer stared at her…then Admiral Griff straightened to her right, voice flat and forceful.

"Relay the order as spoken, Lieutenant."

The comms officer turned to his console, voice quiet as he spoke.

Shira loosed a slow breath, aware that the battle beyond the _Executor_ may well have just raised its stakes exponentially.

If she was wrong…if she was wrong, then she'd lost nothing. She'd received an order not to let him through, yes—and she'd acted on it. But it would be reasonable to argue that when Antilles still pushed forward, she'd assumed the unpredictability of battle had changed that original order. She hadn't in any way acted inappropriately, given Luke Antilles' status.

But if she was right, and Antilles had finally snapped…

Play this correctly, and she had everything to gain. She had progressed as far as she could whilst both Palpatine _and_ Antilles were still alive. If Antilles turned on Palpatine and was killed, then she would be the obvious choice to take his place. If he brought Palpatine down—and knowing their relative abilities, she actually believed that if he could shuck his own self-imposed limits then he had a fair chance—if he did that…well then, she was better placed than ever to seize power.

She simply needed to let the situation play out.

.

.

.

.

.

If Luke was breathing heavily as he turned the corner of the now-silent corridor towards the Command Tower, it was out of antagonism, nothing more. Behind him, the smell of blood and scorched air hung heavy in darkened corridors damaged by firefights which had barely slowed him. Further back, a string of blast doors leading back to the landing bay had been sliced with command codes or simply hacked through, adding the stench of charred circuitry to the smoky air.

Having brought his I-TIE in at breakneck speed towards the small landing bay six levels down from Palpatine's locked-down Command Tower, Luke had faced an automated request for ID, as well as a blanket statement that no TIEs had clearance to land in the bay, and he should immediately re-set his course for a bay at the Death Star's equator. He'd ignored the incoming comm entirely.

The second comm had been the voice of the bay Chief, who had tersely informed him that the landing bay had no cradles for I-TIEs to dock.

He hadn't acknowledged, or deviated even a fraction from his course for the hangar bay entry.

The third, more panicked comm barely audible over his cockpit's collision warning system, had informed him that the bay entry shields were still in place. Turn back.

His fists had tightened on the yoke of his fighter, jaw clenching as he'd held course.

At the last moment the hangar shields had dropped, enabling him to crash-land in a bay-long screech across the hanger floor, lifting a slew of fireproof tiles as his TIE had careened to the side, engines still ignited to stop it from tumbling wildly. It had come to rest against the far wall of the small bay, tilted forward awkwardly, the two lower planes of its angled wings twisted and crushed, ruined beyond repair. Already fuming, he'd scrambled clear, adrenaline flaring from the impact.

So when the squads of stormtroopers who had tracked his position from corridors to either side, waiting until the hallways had narrowed before making their move, had opened fire as he'd closed on the base of the Command Tower, it had simply been somewhere to concentrate his already boiling anger.

It could barely be called a running battle, the stormtroopers slowing him minimally. But that first flare of temper had been spent within it, and with resistance to his advance now gone, his mind began to freewheel, adrenaline making it race ever faster, hurling from thought to thought, from validation to avoidance, searching for solid ground. For something of substance to cling to which made even the slightest sense.

Anger still boiled beneath the surface of his skin, at being backed into a corner like this. At being forced to react—to make this choice. The fear that echoed within the memory of Breha Antilles' dying scream that even now, deep down, he wasn't sure he could.

Han was right; the truth was that in telling Leia all that he had, he had forced her hand. He had instigated this himself.

It was his own fault that his sister was now in mortal danger.

He'd done this to her….to himself.

Sabotaged himself one last, spectacular time.

He stalked on, jaw locked, tilting his head as he shook it in self-censure.

Or was it him at all? Was it Palpatine, up to all his old tricks? Too much; too much up in the air. Could he even possibly hope to change the outcome?

That was what he'd been trying to do when the Rebels had picked him up on Rishi; take some kind of control of his own life. And how successful had it been? And months earlier, when he'd tried to outrun his guilt at Palpatine's death at Corsin—how well had that worked, with Shira and Mara turning up within months?

To run again back to Palpatine after the Rebels had rejected him—to stupidly return to the source of all his problems when it had already been a patently failing formula—had been ill-considered at the very least. You couldn't run from your problems. You simply dragged them all with you to a new place.

He needed to end this before it spiraled down any worse—if that was possible.

He'd tried removing himself; didn't work. He'd simply been dragged back in as the same problems re-centered on him, wherever he was. Mara…so much that he'd done in the last year had been to protect Mara, and look how that was breaking apart. Leia…she was his sister, just as stubborn and driven; all or nothing.

Which left only Palpatine.

He slowed, eyes going down to the lightsaber that he'd wielded with such surety just minutes ago, suddenly leaden in his tightly clenched fist.

What was he doing? What was he actually intending to do, here?

 _You don't turn against your own Master. Ever._ Since the age of seven those words had been beaten, cajoled and ground into him. They sat at his very core, part of the foundation on which he'd built his identity. The one shade of true integrity that even a Sith could hold.

What was he doing? The weight that had begun to press in on him tightened like an iron belt about his chest, driving the air from his lungs.

' _You are…afraid,'_ Palpatine's murmured words swam up from his memory. _'Not of the duel—I taught you better than that. You fear…yourself. What you might do. What you are capable of.'_

 _Fire in the forest._ His Master's claim that any Sith was this by nature—that they burned and destroyed everything they tried to hold close—stung, now. Old lessons, hard learned.

The Darkness defined him. It had long ago claimed him, and he had let it—had abdicated all choice. Had locked himself into a smaller and smaller life, in a desperate attempt to curb that flame…until he was no longer alive at all.

What had it achieved, save to create a pressure keg bound so tight at his core that he felt he couldn't move, couldn't think, for fear that it would explode.

He blinked, head shaking quickly as if he could disperse the rush of contrary thoughts. Fuming, furious at being backed into a corner like this.

She'd given her word— _her word_ that she wouldn't come here, wouldn't face Palpatine. Was this a conscious decision to force his hand? He slowed again, looking to the lightsaber in his white-knuckled fist, certainty swaying wildly. Or was he judging everyone by Palpatine's standards?

She'd always sought to sooth, to calm the constant chaos in his mind: _'You know, there was a faction within the Jedi Order who believed that the Force is neither good nor bad.'_ She'd said those words to him. _'It simply exists. It's how we use it—our intent and motives—which define it.'_

Why had she said that? Why say that to a Sith?

' _You're my_ _brother_ _, Luke.'_

' _Your mistake is in assuming that all Sith want to be saved,'_ He'd been so sure, then. _'We don't.'_

' _You're my_ _brother…'_  
 _'You know what Han called it? An accidental crossing of fate and fatherhood.'_

And he had—back in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. So long ago, it seemed now.

Again, that memory came back crystal clear; of himself, having climbed out once more onto the leaded rooftops of the palace a hundred stories up, to sit on one of the carved stone headers which hung cantilevered over the sheer vertical drop, the wind buffeting him.

And again, that painful pang of comprehension tightened his chest as he recognized that he was still there. He was _always_ there. Alone out on that ledge, whipped by high winds and balanced over a deadly drop. Desperately trying to cling to that insane, precarious balancing act.

Because he was afraid. Afraid of being that seven year old child, faced with an impossible decision.

Every single day since Bail and Breha's deaths, he'd lived with the fear of his own inability to make the right decision under pressure. Every day since, he'd relinquished it to another, rather than make the same mistake again. The fear of not just losing but actually destroying everything he cared about by his own hand had crippled and scarred him for ten long years.

And he was tired of being out on the ledge.

Yet he was terrified of the consequences of stepping back. Stepping up. Making that choice.

Surrounded by military grey corridors, lightsaber in his hand, his mind inevitably went back to Corsin, when he had been sent by Palpatine to kill his father. To his attempt to explain what had happened to Palpatine:

' _I…we fought, we dueled.'_  
 _'But you did not stop him. You could not stop him, because in truth you did not want to. This…gaping flaw that you hold, this dire failing…'_

The dense band about his chest tightened as he struggled to draw breath, every step slower. Would he do the same now? Hesitate, as he had before.

His stride broke, conviction waning.

He'd faltered already, given this same chance. He remembered vividly his own saber held an inch from his Master's throat, just months ago. He'd been so sure as he'd dueled—easily enough to battle Palpatine into defeat, mind engulfed within a flare of fury and absolute conviction— until truth had hammered home stronger than the scarlet haze, ingrained revulsion at his own unforgivable actions flooding in to douse the flame and make him wrench his blade away and drop to one knee, penitent.

Looking into the eyes of the man who had raised him, however harshly, how could he do otherwise? Why did he think he had the right to make any such decision? Any kind of choice?

The gulf between everything his Master had taught him and the broken, bone-deep knowledge of what was right and what was wrong yawed ever wider…but that didn't mean he could turn on him.

His limbs fell heavy, hand lifting as his head spun, suddenly weak, gasping for breath.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't take another step forward. Head hanging, he stared as the ground about him crawled in his narrowing vision. He shouldn't be here.

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _: h_ _e shouldn't be here_ _۰_

The words from the vision hit like a broadside as he gasped, leaning to the wall, heart tripping staccato.

It all hinged on this; he didn't want to be here…but he couldn't walk away. Was pulled inextricably on as the last echoes of the vision that had whispered for so long unfolded about him.

 _۰_ _Shouldn't be here_ _۰_

From the final throes of the spent vision, another coalesced, stronger than ever before:

 _A chamber, huge and dark, lit by unfiltered starlight.  
A voice—a decision—resolve wrapped about resignation, bound through with regret.  
'I won't fight you'  
A rejoinder, intention strung through wire-tight with turmoil and volatility and grief, cornered and reckless and ragged—and how had he not seen that it could only be himself:  
'But I will'  
…_

The thud of his heartbeat marked out stretched seconds as his breath came ever more rough, head shaking, thoughts spinning.

He looked down to the lightsaber in his hand—his father's lightsaber. Remembered his first impression when Leia had given it to him, of the wielder's confidence and sureness.

What had made his father so sure, when he'd made the choice of where to stand? Because he must have faced this moment, this decision… and surrendered.

He couldn't have been much older than Luke was now. How could anything but the same emotions have been in play? What had driven him, what had blinded him so completely that his own son had gone unnoticed, abandoned?

' _Sometimes…you have to forgive, for no other reason than that any other choice will hurt you more. You take what you want from the past, Luke—what nourishes and aids you—it has no greater claim on you than that.'_

Leia's words, of their father—so sure that there were some facets of even this fractured bond that Luke could hold, could carry forward.

His eyes skipped the dour corridor without seeing as he sought to find something of the man who had so relentlessly persecuted and battered him, that he could possibly choose to carry forward; to gain strength from…

His father's willingness, in the end, to acknowledge that all he'd done had been a mistake. That all he'd thought he believed, all he'd been told to uphold, and told was of value within himself and the galaxy…was nothing, compared to that one dim twist of connection within, smothered a thousand times but never quite doused.

The courage to act on that.

To make that commitment—to _act_ to save those who mattered to him.…

Could Luke also let go of the past, and move forward? Forgive himself the mistakes of a seven year old child, terrified and bewildered? Let Bail and Breha's deaths go, if he hoped to save others, today?

 _To act._

His father's bravery, his faith in the end, that he could hold onto his resolve and his battered conscience… that, Luke respected with a power and a need that shone.

That man, that memory, he wanted to hold to. To draw strength from.

Here today, another choice required action. Who to save and who to let die—who _he must_ _kill_ , to save the other.

He'd had the opportunity to stop this before it had even begun, in the cloning chamber on Rhen Var. He could have stopped it all—stopped it from ever happening. Except, of course, he couldn't. He couldn't turn on Palpatine. You never turned on your own Master.

 _You never turn on your own Master._

But he couldn't turn away. Was defying his Master's wishes in the most absolute and premeditated manner possible…for another. Not for himself, but to save the lives that mattered to him.

Perhaps this was that what it was, to be his father's son?

If he could do this now, despite every loyalty and lesson, if he could step free of this…then that's who he was.

 _That_ was who he was. That was who he wanted to be. _Your actions define you,_ Han had said. _You need to take responsibility for them. Own them, or they'll own you_.

He didn't need to define himself by another's terms or expectations. That was what he'd been told to do his whole life; fulfill expectations, fit the pre-existing box.

He didn't _have_ to. He could—should—act on his own conscience. Yes, it was battered and it was wildly skewed and it was dangerously harsh, but it existed. If it didn't, he would be able to do as Palpatine ordered every time, without flinching. This was who he was. _He_ defined _it_ ; not the other way around.

Because he couldn't imagine going against his own heart in this. Couldn't imagine walking away. He could only possibly act on what he felt in this moment, because it overrode anything else.

And with that knowledge pulling at his soul, the decision was easy. Past life, past lessons, past mistakes—they didn't have any bearing on this. He could start again from this moment. Could redefine himself on his own terms, as his father had in the end.

Lifting his hand, he stared at the lightsaber he held; Vader's lightsaber.

He could be his father's son, and be proud of that.

He wanted to share the epiphany; that those he valued—the choices that he wanted to at least try to emulate—had changed. Or maybe they never had…maybe these disparate, dissenting thoughts had always been there, and he'd only just dared to acknowledge them. To want to live by them.

Even if the complications inherent in that would place him in opposition to Palpatine.

Guilt raised a potent memory that sounded from deep within: _"Would you die for me?"_

This, from the man who was willing to violently destroy two lives, just to control another. The man who had first asked those words of a nine year old child. The man who was now willing to end yet another life in pain and devastation, for no other reason than that something he thought he had owned absolutely was being taken away from him.

That this thing he had owned was another life—that he would give even more lives, simply to prove to himself that he could still own it—was immaterial to him. All that mattered was that _he_ _wanted_.

And nothing…no amount of loyalty or ingrained allegiance on Luke's part, could ever understand that. Could ever respect it.

Yes, that need to protect had turned from a choice into a compulsion. One more addiction to add to the list. One more bone-deep flaw, his Master would say. But what if…what if it wasn't? Part of him balked to even think it; to take that chance and let it in, as if by simply doing so he would damn all involved… but what if it wasn't wrong? What if the flaw— _this_ flaw—was a strength. One he needed. Something decent and positive and _right_.

What if this was the one he wanted to learn to live with—to build his life around?

…What if there was nothing wrong with that?

 _All or nothing._ Han's grim condemnation played over in his head; all or nothing. _All or nothing._

He could sense the Force building like a charge looking to ground, as he tried to hold that mindset. Like the pressure before a storm.

He was another ten paces before he realized that it was neither Palpatine nor Leia who was calling it up…it was him.

And Palpatine knew it.

.

.

.

.

.

Sidious came down the wide steps from his throne slowly, the lightsaber hilt in his hand unlit, ocher eyes narrowed to deadly intent.

Still breathing heavily from her duel with Mara, Leia held her ground, watching closely. He was a big man in his prime, wide at the shoulders, a powerhouse of strength. A lifetime of experience that could—

He kicked off and came in with an unexpected blow, one-handed, scarlet saber lighting with a deep, harsh growl as it swung upwards through the air before her.

Leia twisted in retreat, no known counter to the unorthodox move. At its height Sidious caught his saber hilt with his second hand, stopping it dead to slice it backwards in with a shoulder-height slash which Leia, her entire body already twisted away, the ability to retreat already spent, was forced into parry almost side-on. The power of it knocked her grip on her saber hilt, jolting her shoulders and her neck and her torso. She skittered back, her balance compromised, to gather herself into a 360 spin which brought her saber in at hip level with as much power as she could muster.

Sidious countered with a sidewards parry which met her blade at speed, stopping her dead, the momentum reverberating up the bones of her arms. Retreating as the air left her in a gasp, she was matched step for step, Sidious maintaining the pressure on her blade, crowding her with his presence as he grinned ever wider.

"You have made a grave error in coming here, little Jedi. Don't you understand—cut me down today whether in anger or justice, and you achieve nothing. I will rise and rule again. But when I take you down then the Jedi are extinct, their light and their teachings snuffed from the galaxy forever."

Aware of the shattered remnants of the overhead walkway at her back, Leia sidestepped, unwilling to be cornered, knowing that Sidious was looking for any opportunity to bring those massive overhead blows down on an opponent who couldn't back free.

"You're not nearly as safe as you think," She countered, straining to hold against the inward push of the locked blades. "Your new clones are as vulnerable as you are right now."

"To a Jedi, perhaps," Palpatine allowed. "But you are here, onboard the Death Star…and my clones will be safely ensconced onboard the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ , far from your reach. You have nothing to withstand the might of the _Executor_."

"They have to get there, first," Leia said, eyes darting to the space battle playing out in the huge circular viewport behind the Emperor's throne. "Your safe-house is already destroyed. It's gone. Your clones are out in the open. Everything you did was to draw us out, Sidious…but everything we did was to draw you out, too."

His shoulders tensed, whole body seeming to grow as his fury began to crystallize. Stepping back as she held her saber en-guard, Leia continued, hoping to set him off-balance, to divide his attention, and in doing so perhaps gain some advantage…because she was becoming increasingly aware that she needed one. "It won't take a Jedi to kill your clones. Right now, they're as vulnerable as any other being out there on that battlefield."

"Protected by an army. Look out there—look at the power wielded against your motley little group of common miscreants."

"Those common miscreants have hope, they have heart. They have vision. And they know…they know exactly what your clones represent. They're ready to give their lives to destroy them because they know that if they do, they can stop you. Those common men you think so little of, they have the power right now to stop you dead."

Abruptly she loosed pressure on her blade, letting his push past as she lifted her elbow and pulled her saber back and down, twisting her wrists for an upwards slice.

A single step back and Sidious had brought his blade in to block, those wide shoulders angling to put power behind the counter-blow.

"They have nothing," he hissed, locking her blade again; pushing her back. "They _are_ nothing! Because to truly stop me, you must do the same here, little Jedi. And you don't have the power." He said it again, slowly, every word a taunt. "You _don't have the power_. Every breath you take comes closer now to your last."

He pushed hard against her blade with his own, driving her back a step.

"You said yourself that you arranged this—you planned my every move…Then why am I here, now? Why am I the key?"

Sidious settled a fraction—which made Leia nervous. "You don't know? How pitifully sad…that you'll die, never knowing the truth."

She frowned, wary of an attack whilst trying to connect the threads. He danced around the words, as if to speak them—to simply acknowledge that Luke was her brother—burned. If he did know, why wouldn't he say it aloud?

But…oh. She straightened a fraction; he didn't know whether _Leia_ knew.

She stared as she backstepped, thoughts racing to find a way to use it to knock that smug confidence from his face and his sense.

"The truth that he's my brother?" She had the triumph of seeing shock briefly widen those ocher eyes before Sidious' face hardened, lips pressing to a thin line, and pushed the advantage. "You think I didn't know—that he doesn't? You've already lost him, Sidious—he knows. And he knows that you lied to him about it." She shook her head, feeling a perverse pleasure in tipping his poise. "Oh, now whose plans have come awry?"

He stared…and it was as if the very air boiled and folded about him, collapsing in, compressed into raw fury and malignant intent.

Those narrow lips twisted. "You think it means something, this bond of blood? The pull of the Dark side is stronger, and it's long-since rooted at the very core of him. I have carved a lifetime of possession upon that soul. Took a child of seven and turned him inside out, distilling down within him everything that he craved and everything that he feared…and fused them into a single moment. A single act."

She stared as he taunted without mercy, that reptile smile never reaching his eyes.

"I bound a ten year old child to me in that act—a desolate little storm-cloud of fear and fury and self-loathing. I _made_ him that night—I created the Sith that only I would ever be able to control, because I alone know the course back to the child within. I wrote my name on that broken soul using the blood of those he'd clung to—those he killed. And you think that you can invoke some pale affinity of kinship, to overcome all—to wash that soul clean? You think I was lying, when I told you that you could not begin to understand what festers within him?"

"Because of you!"

"Yes, because of me. You search for some connection of lineage? Let me grant you that now; by my hand your father abandoned all he'd once believed. By my hand, his son walks in Darkness….and by my hand you die, tonight."

Leia retreated further, trying to center herself, to find solid ground not mired by tumbling emotions. She knew what Sidious was doing—knew that he'd work to incite confusion and chaos. Jedi acted from a calm center, they gained surety from controlling their emotions, so he would seek to provoke them in Leia now. To make her unsure of her motives, knowing it would unbalance her and make her hesitate. Even a fraction of a second was the difference between victory and defeat—between life and death.

She set her feet against any further retreat and made a fast lunge, her blade aimed low, where she had most power against him. He slowed, forced to backstep to bring his own saber in vertically, elbow high, tip down, batting hers aside with terrifying power. He drew his blade back, a fast backhand slash inside her defenses at chest height, forcing her to give ground, aware that the long run of steps to the dais were closing at her heels.

"You've already lost," he hissed. "Go to your grave knowing that. You lost a decade ago—lost him to me."

She rallied, outrage bringing her lightsaber up as he stalked forward. The roundhouse blow he swung across her blade had all the power of his torso and shoulders within it, utterly unstoppable. Her blade was wrenched to the side, leaving her wide open as she scrabbled backwards, forced to bend low to pull it free, wide open to attack.

He wrenched his lightsaber to the side and up over his head for a diagonal downward cut as Leia set her feet, centering her balance, blade primed to take another bludgeoning blow. Her blade was there to meet it, but the roundhouse blow had so much momentum that her arms couldn't lock against it and both sabers were carried back as she twisted aside, agility saving her arm from being hacked free at the shoulder. The blade came so close that it burned the cloth there, its cold heat sizzling her skin as it brushed the surface.

She hissed a breath in, retreating rapidly, hand to her shoulder. And Sidious let her go; gave her that moment without harassment to feel the pain before he snatched out, eyes aglow. He grabbed at the smoldering cloth of her tunic's shoulder, wrenching her up and throwing her back practically off her feet. Leia stumbled, bringing her blade out in fast defense—

Another massive downward blow, locking their lightsabers together to coruscate brightly, the susurration of the blades crackling as Sidious leaned in.

"Do you hate me, for taking him from you? You brother, your flesh and blood…and oh, how I've made him bleed, little sister. Where were you then, with all of your precious _worthy_ Jedi codes—protect the innocent, the forsaken, the vulnerable—where were you then? Or was it inconvenient?"

Leia lashed out past her reach, the blow wild and wide, wanting only to silence him. He batted it away, sidestepping,

"I didn't know!" She yelled the words, every accusation that spilled from the Sith's mouth burning. Because she'd thought them all herself, as she'd watched her bruised and battered brother laying unconscious in the Rebel medicenter, whilst the medic had reeled off a litany of old scars and broken bones. "They never told me who he was."

Sidious' eyes widened, his victory growing. "Ohhh, little Jedi, how they played you. Your Master and your precious Rebellion, both."

Leia let out a yell, yanking her saber in wide sweep which slewed through the wall to her right, firing a wash of searing sparks to sting her skin. Without pause she brought the blade back around, the blow at the very edge of her reach.

Sidious didn't even deign to bring his own blade up to stay the wild blow. Instead he halted his stalking advance and leaned back a fraction, so that the coruscating blade flashed past bare inches from his face, then continued his tirade as if nothing had happened. "You came here seeking truths, then let me dole them out. Why did he not tell you, the man who raised you from childhood—why did he withhold the truth? Let me enlighten you—because child, it is painfully obvious. It was _inconvenient_. It was inconvenient for your precious Jedi Master to risk his hide to save your brother. Or simpler, even, than that: it was unnecessary. He had you—why risk anything for the sibling he simply didn't need? Why not just lie to you, and work with what he had."

She made another wild blow to silence him, and he caught her blade with his own, their crackling snarl lighting sparks as the containment fields clashed. Leia tried to disengage, backstepping across the floor towards the tall run of stairs, but Sidious held their blades bound as he pushed, taunting, goading, forgoing the killing blow for the pleasure of watching her blanch.

"You think you opened my advocate's eyes to the truth? Then let me return the favor. He lied to you, the man who raised you. You were no comrade to Kenobi, no worthy apprentice, no trusted collaborator. You were a tool to be used, just as your brother is to me. Just as his father was. Just as all your line are." That self-congratulating grin, as he wheedled deeper under her skin. "Did Kenobi tell you it was for your own good when you discovered the truth, little Jedi? Spin his pious lies for a new generation? And you, gullible, credulous, trusting…oh, you swallowed them down so readily. Did you ever bother to think for yourself, little sister? Did you ever try to step outside of those comfortable, convenient lies? It wouldn't have been hard; there were others about you who knew and had no Force to hide their lies; who—"

She slid her blade down his in a radiant flare to lung at his face, thrusting her saber like a spear, fury and resentment rising in a red haze as she let out a yell. Taller than her by head and shoulders he batted it aside, never stopping

"Come strike, little Jedi. Is that all you have, in defense of your soul? Where is your passion, your rage? Throw your fury at me, when we both know it is your own ineptitude you seek to strike at. Your own ugly failures. Let me count them now, as you take them to your grave."

She wrenched her stabbing blow to the side, shouting out in anger, and this time it snatched at the cloth of his arm as he jerked away. Leia felt a wild, vicious thrill to have come close as he brought his saber round a fraction too late, blocking it awkwardly, his torso twisting.

He made a fast one-handed upward twist of incredible momentum which caught her blade with enough power to knock her saber free of her right hand and power her back until she hit against the stairwell's handrail with painful force, all of his bodyweight in against her. Snatching out he grasped her hair to drag her in, his breath hot to her ear and neck.

"Close, little Jedi—so close! See what really gives you power? Feel what gives you the resolve, the potential to challenge even a Sith Master? Use it!"

Trapped against the handrail Leia brought the heel of her free hand up hard, feeling brief satisfaction in his surprised grunt of pain as it connected with the bone of his chin. He threw her backwards and she stumbled, snatching for the handrail to remain upright as she brought her lightsaber up between them, bracing for the incoming blow.

Sidious hadn't moved. He remained two paces back, saber low but carefully poised, head tilted as he spoke slowly, that death's-head grin never fading.

"I'll see you fall, little Jedi…I'll see you break, body and soul, at my feet before I take your head. All you've fought for shattered, all you've hoped crushed. I'll bleed you dry for what you presumed to think you might do to me. For what you tried to take from me."

She lunged forward simply to stop him, to silence that voice. To stop her own thoughts turning inward ever further at her gullibility, her failures.

He caught her blade to push it low, but Leia drew back her arm, freeing the tip to whip it round, aware that the steps were at her back. Already that scarlet blade was rising to block her chance at high ground though, growling as it burned the air, the power of Sidious' swing vibrating down Leia's arms. She braced, breath hitching, mind registering that his blade was a fraction too high to defend.

It was a feint; even as he gave ground across the wide sweep of the staircase to give her the illusion of that chance, she knew it was a feint to pull her into close contact and continue a futile fight—

She stared, panting heavily, her hair clinging to her face and neck with sweat, her whole body shaking…and to the very center of her being, something snapped.

Not what he'd wanted; not what he'd hoped. Instead, still panting, she felt her muscles loosen, her whole being immersing into a deep well of cool calm awareness which flooded up and through her in a single breath, a dense haze to wash away the turmoil and resentment and blood-red fury. A single, pure tone to sweep away the static in her mind. She stared as if from some distant perspective…and recognized in that moment just how far from the light she'd slipped. How dangerously she'd been compromised.

She wouldn't do it—not like this. She wouldn't let him drag her down to Darkness. Wouldn't throw away her values and her soul and the memories of her past and all those who had been part of it, for some empty promise of the power to defeat this man. And every moment that she fought him, she was pulled further down that path.

There was no way back, that she could see. No way out of this, save to stop playing by his rules. To say no…and accept the consequences. On _her_ terms, not lost and enraged and broken.

Letting her shoulders drop she held her ground to the base of the steps and straightened, jaw raising. Deactivating her lightsaber she let her hand fall loosely to her side, fingers numb. This was it—it ended now, by her hand. By her choice.

Sidious loosed a death's-head grin as he stood tall, shoulders widening, towering over her, saber loosing a bass snarl as it lifted, his knuckles tightening about the hilt—

Leia shook her head, hearing her heartbeat in her own hoarse words. "I won't fight you."

.

"But I will."

The voice came from behind her, echoing about the darkened chamber with grim and resolute vehemence, underscored by the bass thrum of a lightsaber.

.

Distracted, Sidious's eyes flicked away from Leia as she gasped, twisting about—

Luke was barely past the walkway that bridged the deep core as he shouted out the challenge, eyes afire. He didn't even hesitate. His arm lifted, palm out, and Leia felt the Force whip past her without contact, focusing to her back—

Behind her Sidious let out a wild yell as he was wrenched bodily away, heel catching briefly as he was flung clear of the staircase and the dais to slam hard into the transparisteel viewport behind the throne, his saber blade sparking against the steel struts before it was doused.

She'd barely flinched when the deck beneath her feet vibrated, shuddering beneath heavy footfalls as Luke took the metal steps in long bounds, past her in a moment, a whirlwind of outrage and resolve wrapped up within Darkness.

His saber was already raised as he reached the top, shoulders twisted high and body arced as he neared Sidious' crouching form to deliver the fatal blow with all the power of his arms and torso—

"Luke, no!"

He hesitated at Leia's shout, foot slipping slightly as he stayed the blow, co-ordination compromised—and it was all the opening that Sidious needed.

From a huddled heap he twisted about, one hand outstretched, fingers splayed.

The power that exploded outward from Sidious was fury incarnate, like ground zero of a bomb, its shockwave wrenching everything in the room, throwing anything that was not bolted down backward to slam against the curved walls, raising slews of bright sparks where wall plates failed.

Leia crouched, one hand to the polished rail of the steps she'd lunged up as she'd shouted out to her brother, feet slipping from step to step, stumbling for balance.

Luke, the center of the surge, was hurled violently backwards. He curled defensively mid-flight, the unyielding metal wall of the central turbolift chute looming. The breath left Leia's mouth in a brief gasp, no time to shout out—

An arm's-length behind Luke the solid wall compressed inwards in a wide concave, as if an invisible shield had collapsed it. Luke slowed rapidly but not brutally, all momentum cancelled out as he straightened to land on his feet in a controlled crouch, one hand to the ground to steady himself, the other wrapped tight about his doused lightsaber.

Rising, he angled his shoulders, head tilted, jaw clenched, cold controlled hostility in his preternaturally bright eyes.

Without pause Sidious spread his palms wide again, fingers spread, hands jerking as he concentrated the Force forward—

Luke hunched down, muscles taut…and instead Sidious was wrenched back, feet sliding over smooth floor tiles by the counterforce of his own power whilst Luke remained rooted to the spot, braced against the onslaught.

Each stared at the other, straightening slowly, neither backing down, neither advancing….

.

"You shouldn't be here." Sidious' words, spoken low in the brief moment in which both stood primed, made Luke visibly falter. Leia saw it quite clearly; saw his whole frame jolt, the breath leaving his body in a harsh gasp. Saw the relevance, if not the meaning.

Sidious saw the same, because he searched Luke's eyes. "That means somethi—"

"Do you know how many visions I've had start with those words?" Luke's yelled challenge echoed around the massive domed chamber. "Did you see them too—was it always meant to come to this?"

"No," Sidious said quietly—benignly. "It was never meant to come to this. Not between us."

Leia frowned, unsure what he was trying to achieve…but her brother he seemed to hesitate, his shoulders loosening a fraction, uncertainty creasing his brow at the visible step-down in Sidious' bearing. Having bought himself an opportunity Sidious was wise enough to press it with words rather than physical threat, which could only possibly escalate given Luke's present state, looking for any opportunity to stoke his own anger.

So Sidious lowered his unlit saber, his tone level but insistent, making himself the calm voice of reason. "Look—look at what you are doing right now, and think."

Luke blinked uncertain, as Sidious pressed on, voicing what were so clearly a familiar words, in his attempt to talk his advocate down.

"This is one in a long line of poor decisions, and you know it, don't you? You know that tomorrow you will regret what you did today. You will realize that once again you were wrong, your actions unforgivable, and you will tear yourself apart trying to make any kind of sense of what you did…because it is indefensible. It is reprehensible. It is foolish and blinkered and—"

"I am _not inevitably wrong_!" Luke yelled the words, stumbling back a step against the onslaught of meticulously-aimed accusations, shouting to hold on to his own anger.

"Yes, you are," Sidious said quietly but unequivocally. "You are impulsive, you are unstable and you are volatile. You are incapable of reaching any kind of lucid, rational decision under pressure—you always have been. You know that. If you were, you would realize that the right thing to do in this moment is to stand down. Walk away. Simply walk away, right now, and we will never—"

"And what happens here, if I do?" Luke took a step closer, knuckles white about his inactive saber hilt.

"What was always meant to happen," Sidious said with unyielding certainty. "Fate will role out as was intended, and the Jedi will—"

"My sister—my _sister_!" He was at the base of the steps now, and this close, Leia realized how conflicted he was in this moment, how desperate.

"…will be snuffed from existence… And your life—the chaos and the turmoil—will settle to stillness. It will calm. All this roiling confusion will be a distant dream of stormy waters, because with each passing day you will be more and more sure that you did the right thing, to walk away." Sidious' voice was utterly calm as he spoke. No argument, but quiet, forceful, persuasive tones. "That is all I ask of you. Simply walk away. Let fate take its course and—"

"Your course! Your choice isn't the only way!"

"Yes it is," Sidious said simply. "It is absolute and immutable."

Still pressed back against the handrail close to the bottom of the wide stairwell, Leia had taken a breath to speak—to offer the alternate view, the possible choices—but before she'd spoken Luke was already shaking his head.

"No." He kept on shaking it slowly, the struggle clearly as much with himself as with his Master. "No it's not. You've spent my belief in you. Squandered it. You always told me that trust must be earned, but every step of the way you prove that you're incapable of doing the same…and I'm done. I'm done with all of this."

"Then turn around and walk away."

"No." His shoulders eased back as he straightened, voice tightening." It doesn't work like that, not between Sith. You know that."

There was so much in his voice and his mind-set, to Leia's trained perceptions. Regret and resolve and reluctance, wavering from moment to moment. She realized only now what it must have taken for him to whip himself up into that brief, desperate fury when he'd entered and challenged his Master. The man who'd raised him and taught him and exploited him for so long.

And she'd stopped him. Sensing only the rage and not the desperation, fearing that to cut Sidious down from the depths of such wild frenzy would damn her brother to Darkness forever.

She'd robbed him of his one chance to end this cleanly. If he had killed Sidious to save his own sister then surely the act would have been justified, and not a fall to Darkness. Surely?

But every word Sidious spoke now would weave a web. She knew that—had faltered beneath that same onslaught herself. He already knew that he had a hold over his advocate—how could he not? Ben had been so much a part of Leia's life, and that with the best of intentions to raise her to independence. For Luke… Ben had long warned that Sidious would have bound him from childhood, initiated and indoctrinated at a far younger age than Leia. A lifetime of manipulation and suppression.

Sidious stalked slowly down the wide span of the red-lit steps, passing Leia with the barest of sideways glances, a well of accusation and derision communicated in the brief sideward slant of his eyes and head.

Then his entire attention was on Luke, who had reached the clear space before the steps and stopped, letting out a brief, quiet breath.

.

.

Luke watched his Master stalk slowly to the open, flat space at the center of the chamber, where the remnants of an overhead walkway lay in shattered disarray across the floor and against one wall—evidence that this had already gone too far. Aware that he was holding his breath he forced it out briefly between open lips and held his ground as Palpatine spoke, the slightest twitch pulling his lip.

"So you come here with a weapon in your hand. With betrayal in your mind."

Luke shook his head slowly. "Have you so little faith in me? No, I didn't intend to fight you today. You brought this down on yourself."

Palpatine began to sidestep, hand tightening about the hilt of his unlit lightsaber. "You've sought this out since I first returned."

"No. But nothing's going to stop you believing that, so I won't try."

Palpatine glanced down meaningfully to the saber hilt in Luke's hand—Vader's saber.

"Traitor."

Luke's chin lifted, the insult cutting deep. "I gave you everything. You asked for my life and I told you that it was yours to command. I made that oath."

"And yet you stand here with a lightsaber, come to overthrow the Master you once revered."

"You asked for my life, and I gave it. _My_ _life_!" He brought his hand up, pointing to Leia. "But not hers—not hers! Not Mara's. Enough!"

With his hand holding the saber hilt outstretched as he'd pointed, he was undefended; unprepared. Palpatine lunged in, saber igniting as his arm stretched taut, a stab aimed at the center of Luke's chest with unerring accuracy.

With no time and no choice Luke fell backwards, twisting as he did so, hearing Leia shout out. The saber dropped and slashed as he scrabbled back, rolling onto his side to bring his free hand up, palm spread—

Palpatine was thrown backwards high through the air. His heels caught to the edge of the higher platform as he passed it, then Luke sensed the drag of counter-Force as Palpatine reacted, offsetting the velocity Luke had used to throw him as he vanished from view.

Given scant seconds Luke scrambled to his feet and powered up the steps at a flat run, lightsaber igniting, its tip slicing into the edge of the red-lit steps and raising sparks at his heels—

to stop abruptly at their head, glancing about, chest heaving. The platform was silent, the half-turned throne empty, no sign of his Master.

His shoulders dropped a fraction, eyes narrowing, at a loss for what to do. With nothing to rail against, the anger he'd whipped up began to falter again and he blinked, uncertain, heart still pounding at his own actions.

.

.

Still stood halfway down the wide sweep of steps which connected the higher level to the main chamber, Leia stared as her brother turned about, his senses sweeping through and past her to widen out into the darkness of the vast space, searching for Sidious' hidden presence.

Frowning, he set back down the wide run of steps, speaking briefly as he passed her.

"Leave. Go." Said tersely without slowing or looking to her, his words held the ring of a dismissal.

She took a half step forward. "I won't leave you."

"I don't need your help."

"Luke…" She paused as he looked everywhere but at her, finally realizing what this was. That he was as angry at her in this moment as he was at Sidious. And it was now that Luke's unfinished warning to her from his TIE, when she'd still been inbound towards the Death Star, came back with new meaning:

" _Don't make me come there and finish this. Don't make me turn on—"_

Jamming had cut the comline, and at the time she'd thought it a threat aimed at her; ' _Don't make me turn on you'_.

It hadn't been that—hadn't been that at all. He'd known that a duel with Sidious was one that Leia couldn't win—had known that it would force him to confront his mentor, his Master: ' _Don't make me turn on him_.'

A duel that would test ingrained loyalty against sibling kinship.

He feared that he couldn't do this. The wild knot of warring emotions tightening within him from the moment he'd entered, gave proof to that.

But she'd forced him into it anyway.

Possible scenarios ran quicksilver fast through her mind, very few encouraging. But he didn't have to do this alone!

She braced, pushing off from the curved handrail, ready to enter the fight despite his words— and stopped.

Every failure—every past failure she and Han had faced with Luke—ran fast through her thoughts in that moment. And one thing connected them: that they'd interceded. Each and every time, they'd intervened. Had tried again and again to stave off her brother's wild instability by protecting him from the hard decisions that they feared might break him irrevocably.

But watching him stalk down the long stairwell into the shrouded darkness, shoulders back and down, head lowered a fraction, his whole body poised to fight… She stared at him as he slowed, seeing afresh. Seeing the man who stood there, without projecting onto him the sum of her own guilt and regrets, nor the judgments and prejudices she'd unknowingly absorbed from others.

Because he'd survived. He'd done that within the pressure-keg of a Sith Master's constant and ruthless manipulation. And still— _still_ , through all of that, he'd held something vital of himself, protected, at his very core.

She knew that. Because despite everything, he was here, now.

Yes, he was unstable, he was wildly volatile…but he wasn't weak. Not for a moment. And she shouldn't insult him by assuming so.

It took a juncture, a pivotal act, to fall to Darkness; that was what Ben had always taught her. Could the same pull Luke back from the brink? She'd thought it herself just moments earlier; that if Luke killed his Master to save his own sister, then surely it was justified.

Could he be vindicated, reclaimed?

So many times she'd sought to drag him back from the edge…and suddenly it seemed so clear how wrong she'd been, in trying to do that for him.

What was required was a conscious step, an act, a choice.

 _Luke's_ choice—his alone.

.

.

.

.


	34. Chapter 34

This is it, folks; final chapter!

.

.

.

 **Chapter 34**

.

.

Han pulled his I-Tie into a brief barrel-roll to drop behind the _Falcon_ and flicked his thumb to the fire toggle at the top of his yoke, eyes flitting between the scene outside and his TIE's targeting system as the _Falcon_ slewed and jinxed in space before him—

Then he opened fire.

The shots went a fraction wide and high, one of them spanging off the shields of the I-TIEs guarding the transports ahead of the _Falcon_ , without damaging it.

Frozen to stillness by concentration Han loosed another barrage, a little low this time. Ahead of the _Falcon_ , the I-TIEs did what any sane pilot would do when one of their own was trying to line up for a killing shot on a spook that had appeared just behind them; they got the hell out of the way to give him a clear line of fire.

In neat formation the TIEs behind the clone transports split and peeled off to either side, yawing into vectored curves to lose distance without sacrificing speed, seeking to get themselves out of the line of fire of the incoming Rebel ship and the Imperial TIE pilot who obviously would be trying only to get an enemy off their back. The last four I-TIEs remained, widely spread to either side of the transports as they powered for the safety of the _Executor's_ bay.

Remembering Luke's warning from long ago about the dangers inherent in simultaneously firing all six guns on an Interceptor, Han gave a silent prayer, then dumped his shield power into weapons, and pressed fire. All six lasers opened up full-pulse with a gut-kick of immense recoil, the reverberation rattling his cockpit and jarring Han's teeth as he braced, tracers lighting the dark of space in a near-solid line of light, so intensely-packed were the shots.

The first shot out of the upper barrels snicked the very edge of the _Falcon's_ shields, the sustained close-set burst of fire enough to break through and raise a black puff as it took some paintwork off a lower panel, jarring the ship a fraction to port and making Chewie howl in Han's earphones.

But already the shots were finding their real target, and the four I-TIEs about the transports exploded brightly in sequence as their shields were overwhelmed by the power of the sustained burst. Only the last one had time to pull a fraction to the side, still too slow to get clear beneath the barrage of close fire.

Then the guns were silent, and instead Han had a run of lights flashing across his cockpit dash, warning of depleted power and counting to recharge. It had lasted all of three seconds, and in that time he'd exhausted weapons and shields completely…but man, that had been a buzz!

Ahead of him Chewie's howl had been brief, all the Wookiee's attention on the transports that Han had just bought him a clear line of site to. The _Falcon_ righted and curved, lining up its sights on the transport that they'd decided was the clone carrier. As the _Executor's_ massive hull loomed the two transports pulled tighter together, clearly intending to high-tail it into the safety of the bay side by side.

This close to the docking bay the Feinar turbolasers set into the hull above the Destroyer's bay opened up, trying to clear a line for the transports by lancing massive gouts of energy out into the dogfight. Her dorsal quad canons flaring, the _Falcon_ held course behind the right transport as it closed for the docking bay entry, the crossfire from those massive Feinar turbolasers lighting space behind the transports in a criss-cross grid of dense firepower. Han winced as the _Falcon_ wrenched violently beneath the onslaught, unable to hold her place despite his having cleared the area of TIEs.

In the next moment he saw the upper fore shield fail in a fritzing rush of oil-slick color, and three shots spanged into the freighter's loading arm close to the cockpit, knocking the entire ship to her side.

"Chewie, pull back!" Han shouted. "They'll tear you to pieces!"

.

.

.

.

.

Leia glanced to the distant space battle, just visible to the upper edge of the Command Tower's bulbous circular viewport, flashes of heavy ion lasers against starlight the vast room's only illumination.

Her eyes and attention flicked quickly to her brother as he stalked the edge of the overhang beneath and to either side of the long run of steps which led up to the higher level of the curved chamber, where the Emperor's throne stood empty.

Luke paused, staring into the dense shadows created by the upper level…nothing moved.

Wherever Sidious had hidden, he chose to remain.

Fingering his saber hilt to a tighter grip at his side, Luke turned away, shoulders tight. Leia had thought it was to make a slow circuit of the chamber, but instead he reached out one hand, and the five red bars to the side of the turbolift entrance illuminated as the curved doors slid back to show the empty carriage, a small flare of bright light in the starlit chamber.

He barely turned, avoiding eye contact with her entirely. "Go. I don't want you here."

His attention was still on the shadows to the corners of the chamber, his back half-turned to her, his anger palpable in his every action.

At Sidious, at himself…at her for inciting this, however unknowingly.

But if she believed that having made this choice, he alone must act on it—must follow it through of his own volition—she didn't for one second intend to desert him as he did so. She moved quickly down the steps, chin lifting. "I'm not leaving y—"

Sidious emerged with a yell from the deep overhang to the right of the steps as Luke ignited his lightsaber, making Leia skitter back to clear his ability to swing it.

A bright flare of blue-white lit the chamber, the low, thrumming pulse of Luke's saber immediately familiar to Leia. Not the intense red of the blade he had fought Leia with, on Coruscant—it was their fathers; it was Anakin Skywalker's lightsaber.

Before Sidious had even reached his quarry Luke was retreating, unwilling to meet the momentum of the incoming blade head-on. Six paces back Sidious launched into a high jump, blade swinging a wide one-eighty degree arc to come down with incredible force.

Luke was already sidestepping, looking to offset the power of the blow by directing the blade to the side without even trying to impede its downward force, twisting on the balls of his feet as he did so, the meeting of the sabers sending out an arc of flaring sparks which made Leia flinch.

With his blade on top at the end of the move, Luke brought his saber up in a fast backward swipe, forcing Sidious to lean back and surrender his own saber to one hand to gain enough distance to avoid the blow.

All his weight on his right foot, Luke had the momentum to spin his torso with the blade and launch immediately forward with a swipe which should have cut his opponent from shoulder to hip, but Sidious was still backstepping, giving ground until he knew that Luke's power was spent.

The moment he saw his blow had missed its mark Luke pushed off from his left foot, moving laterally to his right, aware that the collapsed wreckage of the overhead walkway was to his back and trying to gain safe distance. Sidious' swing missed him by a hand's width with no intercept from Luke's saber, so that it swung past entirely, each of the men backing up a step, the first rush of blows spent in a fast flurry.

Sidious sidestepped quickly across the space to his goal, stumbling slightly when his heel met the first step leading up to the dais, and backing hastily upwards.

Knowing he'd lost the advantage and reluctant to face a stronger foe on higher ground, Luke immediately moved his own line of attack, keeping up his speed but veering in a wide arc about Sidious, intending to come up the steps to his right and so remain level with him.

Sidious saw this of course, and backed rapidly up the steps, maintaining the high ground as he moved to cut Luke off, glancing behind him to set the landscape in his mind. He'd fight to hold onto that high ground, Leia knew. But the treads of the steps were a dangerous place to make his stand, with too much room for an error in footwork, forced or accidental, either of which could be deadly.

Luke risked another step, forcing Sidious to do the same if he wanted to maintain his advantage; to move forward across a step towards Luke, as Luke made a wider sweep. To act without the time to consider. Two steps up and he'd become predictable enough that Luke's blade was low to meet his ankle as he took the next step, forcing a break in his movement and thoughts and intentions.

He brought his blade low to protect his legs, but Luke was already slipping his saber back in a tight arc to come in high with a slice towards Sidious' hip, given their staggered height on the steps. With no choice, Sidious was forced back, allowing Luke to take another step upward; another step towards level ground. All this inside of a moment, both duelists already moving again, mind on the next feint, and the next, forced close by the restricting handrails of the barely-lit steps. At this proximity every mistake was magnified, every action and reaction too close to afford even a moment's thought, every act an unquestioning mix of experience and instinct.

Abruptly Sidious moved, launching forward. Luke was already reacting, his blade dropping to counter, so that the attempted twist which would have disarmed him entirely locked their sabers in a sparking screech as each blade's containment field dragged against the other. Sidious pushed bodily closer, looming over Luke, bringing wide shoulders and greater weight to bear with a brief grunt of effort as he powered into him. Saber trapped low, Luke brought his upper arm around without releasing his blade, trying to take the brunt of the blow there, his boots slipping across the narrow tread of the stairs. In doing so he was forced to give ground and drop a step down, stretching a fraction too far out of balance to free his blade. Palpatine released his grip on his own saber to one hand and struck out, free hand tightening to a fist as he made downward contact with Luke's jaw.

Knowing Sidious' power Leia flinched, breath catching in her throat as she bit down on the desire to shout her brother's name.

Too close—they dueled too closely, Leia could see that, Sidious attempting to crowd Luke with his bulk and his strength, to limit Luke to defense against those massive blows, to give him no time and no space to turn any parry into an attack. The blow had knocked Luke down and back two more steps, and he gave a third in a near-stumble which dropped his saber low.

Sidious lunged forward with a fast thrust which Luke parried with an awkward one-handed inverse twist of his saber, hip trapped against the handrail behind him. He gave the final step in a stagger, lurching quickly back across the flat deck of the main chamber towards the deep well which surrounded the turbolift shaft, Sidious in close pursuit.

It was only when Luke was six steps back and he straightened, setting his saber ready a fraction too fast for one recovering from that downwards stumble, that Leia realized that his backward stagger had been to lure Sidious out into a more open arena.

But at a cost. With momentum and space to set his path, Sidious came in with a hail of heavy roundhouse swings which pummeled his opponent, each placing him perfectly for the next, a barrage of offensive strikes which gained power with each hammering blow laid.

With every strike of Sidious' lightsaber Luke's feet skidded back across the smooth deck tiles, his whole body arcing to take the brunt as each blow came in, eliciting inarticulate gasps of expended energy as he held against the onslaught.

Dominating the skirmish, Sidious had the latitude to spin three-sixty, his saber rising the whole time as Luke hastily brought his own blade up, bracing for another massive blow.

Sidious pressed forwards, each overhead blow coming with all the weight of his body and shoulders, pummeling Luke into retreat.

Leia watched as Luke gave ground, her breath frozen, knowing that any one of these blows landed would end the duel decisively.

He could fight better than this, her brother. She'd faced him herself—she knew this wasn't anything like his form. He'd said himself that he'd dueled his father often whilst learning, so he was used to being the smaller, lighter combatant; less power and more technique. He knew that Sidious would try to stay close and crowd him, knew how dangerous that was.

But he was fast, and she knew from hard experience that he could think on his feet, his mind always six moves ahead of his body. He'd dueled since he was a child, and every move and counter was muscle-memory now. He was better than this.

He was fighting defensively.

He was fighting the man who had raised and taught him.

She watched in tense silence, her lightsaber hilt clutched to her chest, muscles jumping in reaction to each new threat her brother faced—every close blow, every fast feint, every heavy strike. Knowing that this was no longer about the duel, it was about the duelists. About just how much each of them wanted to win.

And Luke was fighting defensively. Because he was fighting so much more than the duel.

She wanted to shout out to him. To tell him that Sidious would know all this too—would play to it. Wanted to yell at him to fight…wanted to ignite her own saber and step in beside him, the desire to act twitching her muscles involuntarily with each and every one of those bone-breaking blows that Sidious brought down.

But she knew, she _knew_ in a way that sang through every cell in her body that she couldn't. This was the crux, the core, the key. He had to face this down, or never break free, never move forward. If she interfered, if she did this for him now, then he'd committed to nothing.

He needed to do this. Needed to come through it.

Needed to fight.

.

.

Luke braced as the next incoming blow reverberated through the bone and muscle of his arms and shoulders, aware that he had only one more step to retreat before he'd come up against the rail at the edge of the deep chasm which surrounded the turbolift.

Some tiny portion of his mind wondered what his Master would do if he simply let himself tip backwards over the rail, into the deadly drop. Would that be so terrible?

A blow slicing diagonally down his right made him twitch aside on instinct to avoid it entirely, so that Palpatine's saber came down fast through empty space. The classic counter would be to attack as the blow came to an end, when your opponent's blade was low, their strength expended. Instead Luke sidestepped quickly to his left, retreating across the narrow bridge and onto the walkway which surrounded the circular turbolift shaft.

Palpatine followed at speed, blade resting to Luke's as he slowed, looking to maintain contact, using the pressure to gauge his opponent's actions when intent was hidden beneath dense Force-shields. Luke backstepped as he let the blades hold, because everything that Palpatine gained from this, so did he. He'd learned long ago to read the minute pressure changes of a blade pressed against his own, as his opponent moved their center of balance in preparation to break. The slight tightening of their shoulders, the inpull of their chin. The necessary rebalancing and contraction of muscles to pounce. The best did it not simply imperceptively but inside of a single blink, so that they were moving forward into the strike by the time the changes were registered. But all of this was in the feint, too. Telegraphed in order to force a reaction, to gain the advantage, to break rhythm. Even when intent was masked within the Force, Luke had learned to distinguish the two—an aura of intent versus unraveling power which flashed a split-second before genuine movement, as if the air itself charged.

So he was already moving as Palpatine's blade twitched in advance of a strike. It lifted for a high downward blow, but as it did so Palpatine's ribcage compressed slightly to one side, body preparing to counter the downward velocity. As the blade came down it abruptly changed path, coming in from the right as a horizontal slice.

Luke hitched down and twisted away, tucking his blade downwards close to his body, so that Palpatine's red blade flashed by without contact to embed deep into the curved wall of the turbolift, cutting through the control panel close to his head.

Bright light flared unexpectedly from the deep gouge as power and control systems were cut, the heat rolling across Luke's shoulder as he hunched lower. Palpatine staggered back with a brief yelp, hand going to his eyes.

Luke twisted about as he rose, saber held one-handed in a wide outward and upward swing. It cut without slowing through the metal of the handrail, its aim unerring, its momentum incredible.

For an instant—for a horrifying instant—he thought the blow would land; that it would continue unopposed and cleave a path through Palpatine's skull and on into the turbolift doors which were now jammed part-open, the light from within silhouetting the scene with a surreal glow.

He'd already broken the swing—had loosed his locked elbow—when Palpatine's saber blade came up in a hasty one-handed block as he jerked aside, his shoulder and head impacting hard against the side of the turbolift wall to gain him the distance he needed to deflect the blow.

Left now in an indefensible position, his blade one-handed and his body full-twist, Luke pushed off away from the wall with the heel of his free hand, ducking as he did so.

The blow came in horizontally at head-level, snarling a guttural growl as it cut the air above him. Luke didn't look, didn't turn, still powering away from its reach on the inevitable backswing.

The instant he thought he had distance he turned, bringing his saber round in a wide swing at shoulder-level, no idea where Palpatine's blade would be.

It was already incoming, a counter with all the power of Palpatine's shoulders and core, which jarred both blades to a crushing halt.

Inside Luke's defense, Palpatine made an incoming slash, low and to his side; it had been obvious, the only possible rejoinder. Luke should have been ready, he knew that. Should have had his blade pitched to take the blow near the hilt, catching both sabers up and twisting them to horizontal, giving him an opportunity to take off the hand of his opponent.

His opponent—

' _I have given you everything—everything that you are and everything you will ever be…'  
'Remember who you are; what you are.'  
'Traitor.' _

His blade was barely there to catch the next strike; it came in from a high angle, dropping towards his neck—and how had it got there?

He flinched back, arms jolting, the blow so powerful that it carried his own with it, knocking both back towards his face.

' _If you must bend your arm to block a blow then you are too close to your opponent.'_ This man had taught him that. _'If you're forced to bend your forward arm, then lock your trailing one entirely. Take the brunt there. Twist your torso and your hilt with the sweep of the incoming blade and you will be inside your opponent's defenses to lay the killing blow.'_

He locked the blades, moving with them, torso and hilt in line with the scarlet blade as it was swept past his face, leaving him inside his opponent's defenses—

' _Lay the killing blow.'  
'Traitor.'_

It was a clear line, a clean kill.

' _Traitor.'_

For a single hitch of breath Luke hesitated, eyes on Palpatine, body tensed, every muscle taut—

With a yell Palpatine retreated two fast steps, freeing his blade as Luke straightened, chest heaving.

 _'Never stay the blow; never defer. Never pity.'_

How many times had he been told that, by this man?

Luke stumbled back a step, hip to the handrail. Already cut free at that point, it gave, bending back precariously.

Twisting as he overbalanced, Luke bent his knees and kicked off, using the Force to augment his momentum into a long backward somersault which took him across the deep sinkhole and back onto the main floor of the chamber.

He stood slowly from the crouch, eyes on Palpatine, the deep chasm between them.

Palpatine straightened where he stood, lightsaber dropping to his side, not allowing Luke the luxury of concentrating blindly on the duel.

"This is not your fight." The absolute certainty of his words echoed across the space between them. "Have you realized that, yet? Don't let her use you."

"And you?" Luke shouted. "How many times since Corsin have you said that I was responsible that day? Said that it was because of me, you died."

"Your failures," Palpatine intoned. "Your lack of judgment. The same flaws that define you now have already led to the death of your Master once, the man you swore an oath to protect."

"And yet you're still here."

"By _my own_ power."

"Because even hell wouldn't take you," Luke yelled. "Even hell spit you back."

Stood alone to the center of the space, breathing heavily, saber tilted in readiness with no challenge incoming, Luke was aware that he was trying to incite himself to fight. To re-ignite the conviction which had flared in those first heated minutes, but was now spent, drowning in a haze of faltering uncertainty as he looked his Master in the eye.

"You cannot kill me. We both know that." Palpatine paused at the head of the bridge, the half-open turbolift doors bright behind him. "So what is this…another ill considered excuse to have your grievances aired, to flex your muscles as you grow?"

He remained still, a silhouette against the light, his face mercifully hidden, though his voice held all of his customary disappointment. "This is all anger and precious little certainty. Look at yourself—already you're wavering. A brief flare of outrage, with no true conviction to back it up. You come here with a lightsaber in your hand, and yet you _know_ you cannot kill me."

Luke clenched his fingers about his saber hilt, setting forward, if only to stop Palpatine from saying more. "I'll damn well tr—"

Palpatine reacted to the open threat by throwing out his hand, instigating a formidable Force-fed blow that punched against one side of Luke's chest like a ramrod, knocking the air from his lungs and the thoughts from his mind in a white-out burst of painful shock, as he was thrown to the side of the chamber.

He curled to a ball mid-air, again snatching out to negate the Force-fed momentum with a counter-force of his own, cocooning himself with a small buffer of protection against the brunt of the impact, which crumpled the steel structure of the high walkway he'd been hurled towards.

Dropping to the ground he turned as he stood, still winded from the blow, ribs aching, looking for his attacker.

Palpatine had set forward, running at speed, and Luke fell back beneath the offensive, a wide curtain of scarlet near-blinding him as he parried, pain firing deep in his ribs, breath short, focus narrowing to the duel, the blade, the instant.

Parry, give ground, parry, give ground, give ground, give ground…

This wasn't how he fought. It wasn't what he'd been taught, what he knew. What he _knew_ was to be pro-active, not reactive. Create your own chances; lead the fight. Nullify your opponent's strengths, play to their weaknesses. Endless training from the age of seven, hour on hour, day on day. Training until the movements and the reasons no longer had meaning, but became instinct. Years of repetition, every move polished, every flaw punished, every single lesson hard learned.

He knew this—knew it! Knew his own abilities, knew his opponent…but there, therein was the problem.

Because familiar memories still barbed deep, as they whispered who had taught those lessons: " _Stand up straight. Remember who you are; what you are. I_ _gave_ _you that purpose, that identity. I granted you life itself, because I saw within you the potential for true loyalty. Do you feel nothing—no desire to uphold my faith in you?"_

As if hearing his doubts Palpatine loosed another blow designed to lock their sabers, the force of it holding Luke's blade a fraction too far from center, so that to pull free he'd have to cede ground. Palpatine leaned in, face lit by the deep crimson of his own blade, voice taunting.

"Because of me, you stand here today stronger than you ever could have been, alone. Because of me!" Palpatine hissed the words, towering over Luke, forcing him to strain to hold against the push of the incoming blade. "Without me you are nothing! Without me, you will flounder in the darkness and drown in your own instability, destroying everything around you. I am the _only_ control you have. The only safety valve."

"I won't pay that price any more."

Sidious shook his head, voice dropping to a growl. "Then you're of no use to me."

Snatching his saber free he brought a high strike down at speed, loading the angled downward slice with the power of his arms and shoulders.

Smaller and lighter, Luke met the blow but didn't have the mass to stop it entirely. Instead he arched back as Palpatine's blade seared by inches from his face, its light blinding, its deep thrum loud in his ears. He followed its path with his own and immediately brought his saber up inside of Palpatine's guard, straightening to give the inward swipe strength.

It whisked past Palpatine's head with inches to spare—a swipe that should have engaged. Should have landed true.

He'd tilted his own blade at the last moment, and he knew it. He'd pulled the punch.

Palpatine let out a yell as he snatched his coruscating blade back and round in a wide diagonal swing designed to cleave Luke from shoulder to hip, the blow raising a gout of sparks when it hacked deep into the deck plates at his ankle as he twitched aside, no fraction of allowance made.

.

.

Leia took a broken step forward, desperately driven to go to her brother's aid but unwilling to interfere, hand tightening about her own saber hilt, reminding herself again that this had to be Luke's choice; his decision to act. He could do this…hold faith; he could do this.

He had to commit, and it had to be now.

He couldn't maintain this—he couldn't maintain a defensive stance and hold his own in a duel at this level. Perception, footwork, timing, spatial awareness, blows, counters, feints they were all a given at this level. The duel—the true battle—was in the mind. Lose concentration, lose focus for a single instant, and you were dead. No matter the reason or the justification, a second's lapse was catastrophic. Her muscles twitched in empathy with every blow her brother caught and parried, the desire to step in beside him burning.

He could do this…he _could_.

Sidious brought his scarlet blade down hard, knocking Luke's low and to the side beneath it in a flash of blinding sparks. The moment he did so—the moment he had control of both blades—he loosed one hand to snatch out and up, closing it about Luke's throat and powering him backwards until Luke hit against the curved wall with a gasp, forced to release his own saber hilt to one hand as he clawed at Sidious' tightening grip, the flesh of his throat compressing as the Sith leaned close.

"I made you…I _made you!"_ Sidious howled the words as he came within an inch of Luke's face. "You think I'll let you turn around and walk away? I'll strip you flesh from bone before I let that happen!"

Leia could see Luke's chest hitching as he struggled for air, saber trapped, no room to maneuver. Sidious hunched, getting his shoulder beneath his arm as his fist pushed beneath Luke's jaw, forcing upwards, so that Luke's body was lifted clear of the floor.

"Yield!" Palpatine yelled the word into Luke's face, spittle thrown out in his fury.

In the same second that Leia set forward, her brother—with his feet clear of the floor and taking no weight—bent his leg at the knee and, scrabbling for purchase, got one foot against Sidious' leg above the knee and pushed with all his might. The act forced him upwards, stealing the power from Sidious' ongoing pressure. With the wall behind him to add stability to the push Luke was up above shoulder-height in a split-second, saber deactivating to slide it free as Sidious lost control.

Knee to Sidious' shoulder, Luke heaved bodily off from the wall, his momentum forcing Sidious over backwards. Luke toppled with him and landed hard, forced to make a rough roll to absorb the impact. He came up onto his knees, still coughing, hand about his freed throat, gasping for air.

Sidious too rolled slowly over and onto his knees, badly winded, the hiss of steam about him marking where his saber blade had cut unknown pipes in the deck.

He staggered up and back a step as Luke did the same, both men breathless, both wary, as the stakes and escalated.

It was Luke who came forward, launching off with a hoarse yell, saber twisting up behind him for a heavy downward blow.

Sidious' counter was slow, both men dredging up reserves, drawing on the Force to keep them upright, keep them moving. Luke's pace was quickening though; he'd practiced or fought too often like this; he knew how to dig deep, knew how to move past it.

Sidious gave ground, and Luke pushed on as he did so, forcing failure of balance and footwork, making Sidious stumble.

He fell backwards to catch his balance on one hand, but where Leia or Luke might have turned the misstep into a flip to gain distance, Sidious had either too much bulk, or more likely was unused to either the habit or the technique. His cloned body was capable, but his mind had abandoned such things long ago, as age had slowed it.

And if it hadn't occurred to him to think of it, then it wouldn't occur to him to expect it. The same reasoning clearly hit her brother in that moment, because as Palpatine hauled himself upright using the wall Luke broke forward, his course two steps to the side of Sidious, just out of range of his blade.

Luke jumped at the wall, all his momentum and a kick from the Force giving him the impetus to travel up and along it towards Sidious, gaining height as he did so, his saber held back and up behind him. He pushed off, twisting as he did so, leg kicking out—

The blow caught Sidious across his shoulder and head, snapping both about, powerful enough to drive him back. The underhand saber slash which Luke swung out as he dropped down missed only because Sidious had been knocked clear of its path entirely, the supercharged blade raising a brief flicker of flame from the cloth of his shoulder, so close did it come.

Sidious fell back, crumpling to one knee, hand to the floor as Luke landed in a crouch, his blue-white blade embedding deep into the metal of the deck plates and loosing a wide flash of sparks which ignited to fire, flickering up from the increasingly damaged floor.

Luke pushed off, blade flaring as it came free of the deck plates, a wide wall of blue-white light as he swung it up and back for a downwards blow.

Sidious pushed unsteadily up, moving back in fast, staggered steps, loosing his focus, his timing, his footwork—

He stumbled as Leia watched, heart in her mouth. It would be this; it would be an escalation of smaller moves like this which would cascade to a fatal flaw. The duel was too well matched otherwise.

Luke lunged forward—and was stopped in his tracks as a metal deck plate close to Sidious wrenched up, thrown forward into Luke's face.

His arm came up to protect himself, but the impact drove him back a step. Then another deck plate, this time side-on, so that its edge sliced deep across Luke's upturned arm like a blade. He hissed, arm dropping as a third deck plate jerked free, snapping the fine bolts which secured it.

Luke turned on it, letting out a yell, and it jolted to a stop mid-flight to slam down hard to the floor, crushed underfoot as he pushed forward for Sidious, his blue-white blade held one-handed to swing in a tight roll beside him then lift high to strike.

But Sidious had used the distraction and his blade was there, waiting. He caught Luke's saber—caught the wrist that held it, left open by the wide blow.

His left wrist immobilized, Luke didn't even hesitate; his right hand loosed his hilt and came round in a wide blow, hand curled to a fist that had all the power of his shoulders behind it, to make hard contact against Sidious' face, driving his head back so that he released Luke's wrist in shock.

Sidious staggered back another step, hand to his face as Luke stood his ground and loosed a wordless howl of challenge.

The Sith straightened, ocher eyes aglow, and Leia sensed the Force drag inwards in that moment, power condensed and directed—

He threw his hands out before him and bright actinic lightening flared, lighting the entire room as it jumped the distance between himself and Luke in a nanosecond, shuttered strands seeking to ground. Luke half-hunched, one hand out before him, wrapping the Force like a shield so that the lethal spurs sparked against it, their power spent. With a feral yell he took a solid step forward into the oncoming stream, head tilted in effort, feet sliding back across the deck plates beneath the power of the onslaught.

With a shout Leia set forward, lightsaber activating as she swung it in a wide arc, running in towards Palpatine's left side.

He twisted to her, the lightening still flaring—

And everything went blank. A single second of shocked pain registered as her entire body hit hard and high against the wall that had been several paces behind her. She fell to the ground, her breath already knocked from her when the charge had first wrenched her backwards, lungs and stomach hitching in contention, struggling to draw breath.

With all the force against which he'd been pushing gone, Luke had half-fallen forward, hand to the floor. But already he was scrabbling up, letting out a yell as he brought his blade around in a horizontal arc to Palpatine's unprotected back.

Palpatine twisted, wheeling his lightsaber over his shoulder, blade down, to catch the incoming blade and defend his back. Upright now, Luke loosed his hilt to one hand, his right hand curling again into a fist as it continued around, arm lifting, to deliver another blow to Palpatine's face sufficient to snap his head back violently.

Palpatine staggered, lax for a split second, but Luke's power too was spent, saber one-handed, arms wide, body open. Weight to his back foot, he brought his right leg up and in, tilting his body for height, so that the kick caught Sidious to the center of his chest, sending him reeling back another step into the ruins of the overhead walkway. He stumbled, forced to grab at the wreckage to remain upright, debris shifting beneath his feet.

For a few broken breaths both paused a step apart, Luke's hand to his ribs, blood from his arm saturating his sleeve, Sidious' nose and mouth now bleeding freely…

Realizing, he brought his hand to his mouth and pulled it away, glancing down to see blood… and with a hiss he pushed himself straight, launching forward.

.

.

.

.

.

Mara was moving somewhere between a walk and a run, headed for the small bay several levels down which housed the TIE escort for Palpatine's private shuttles, deeply uneasy. Her order had been to go to the _Executor_ and stand by. To find the transport which contained her master's clones, and wait.

Was Leia Skywalker really so much of a threat? Or was it simply that Mara herself had failed to bring the woman down, and had been dismissed? She felt a flare of frustration, and broke briefly into a run, fed by adrenaline and humiliation.

Snippets of Palpatine's conversation with Shira flashed through her mind as she jogged. The distance between herself and Palpatine in the cavernous main chamber of the Command Tower had made it difficult to hear, the curved walls deadening and distorting sound, but… Hadn't she heard her master speak Luke's name?

Her duel with Leia Skywalker had been in full swing, her entire attention there, but she had heard Luke's name, she was sure. He was here, somewhere.

She felt a brief, sharp pang to the center of her chest; they hadn't spoken since their painful severing of ways onboard the Rebel cruiser—what more had there been to say? Perhaps time would have…she pressed her lips together as she half-ran; no.

And yet he'd come back here, as Palpatine had said he would. She'd doubted, to be honest; in the very center of her soul, she'd doubted that Luke would return.

Palpatine had been completely confident. ' _Where else does he have to go?_ ' He'd uttered. ' _What solid ground is left to him?'_

Mara's step slowed a fraction; had she been part of that? Had it not simply been that whatever misguided association he'd formed with the Rebels had been severed…had it also been by whom?

Because he'd come back here…he'd come back, when he'd said to her onboard the Rebel destroyer that it was the one thing he wouldn't do. Had she been at least part of the reason why? Had he come back because of what she'd asked...or because of what she'd done?

What had Palpatine said to Shira…delay him? Why? She rounded another turn in the pale gray corridors, frowning. Presumably Palpatine wanted to deal with the Rebel Jedi himself—was that it?

She'd been out of the loop for too long, hidden amongst the Rebels. Arriving here with them she had no idea of the greater plan, no time to be briefed. As she reached the TIE bay, Mara pulled her comlink from her waist and tried to contact Shira onboard the _Executor_ —but cursed, receiving only static in reply, all channels blocked.

She had only half a conversation, half the facts… Given his last command, Palpatine had presumably ordered both clone transports to re-route to the _Executor_ , yet it sounded as if Luke was on his way to the Death Star from there, right now. Surely he could have stayed onboard the _Executor_ , and gone to the clone transports?

She reached the small, empty hangar, slapping her hand against the internal door-plate to lock the bay, then turning about to head to one of the two standard TIEs cradled there.

Halfway across the bay she slowed, seeing space outside of the Death Star for the first time since the operation had started. Most of the action was centering around the _Executor_ nearby, with the Rebel ships clearly trying their hardest to keep its massive bulk between themselves and the Death Star for protection—as well they should. The _Executor_ looked intact to this side, but judging from the amount of firepower that the three Rebel battlecruisers were throwing against its far flank, it must have sustained damage. Its shields deflected huge gouts of energy, visibly dispersing it across their surface as bright splashes which radiated outwards in flickering rings, like ripples in water. All about it the tiny, bright pinpoints of snub fighters flicked and danced, like fireflies drawn to the light.

Mara stared, silently calculating the odds with a practiced eye; nothing to fear, unless more heavy artillery or destroyers arrived…so why did something press in, ever mounting, at the back of her mind? Like a storm gathering…

Closing her eyes she stilled her mind, concentrating…and it whispered like a cool breeze at dusk, raising the fine hairs on her neck. She let out a soft, gasped breath of comprehension, glancing behind her.

Why was Palpatine in danger? Because he was; the locus of that disconcerting tremor was here, not on the _Executor_. It was here, and getting denser by the second. Stood beside the fighter, hand resting to the flat plane of its wide wing, she licked dry lips, trying to focus, to feel out the fear that pooled within. Not for herself; she was no longer the one under threat, now that she had left the duel behind. Not for the _Executor_ , and therefore not for the clone transports.

Was the Jedi, Leia, really a match for her Master? Could she bring him down? No—Palpatine had seemed supremely confident of that, when she had left him to do his bidding. The woman was no threat.

So why did she feel increasingly torn, unsure whether to go to the clones, or stay, against her master's order. He was fully capable of dealing with Leia Skywalker, and the Death Star itself was under no threat—the Rebels were actually doing their very best to avoid it entirely, concentrating all their firepower on the _Executor_ … Mara paused, eyes closing as her head lowered, trying to lock that rudimentary sense of foreboding down; why bother to send her to the clones at all, in that case?

Where was the threat? She'd come by the route that Palpatine had ordered her, taking the hidden stairway to the TIE bay, exactly as—

Her brow creased above closed eyes; why? Why take the hidden stairway, not the turbolift? The uneasy qualm which sat cold at the base of her gut surged, bringing her head back to the hangar entry door behind her, eyes wide.

She turned and set off at a dead run, unsure what she would find, but knowing exactly where to go.

The wide corridors which were the main path back towards the Command Tower were shadowed, every other light doused by damage. More of the same blackened the walls in wide swathes—blaster fire, deep abrasions, dented panels… The first bodies were around the next corner; stormtroopers—no others—crumpled here and there, the destruction in the corridors increasing.

She was two steps past the fifth one before she halted and backstepped, breathing heavily as she crouched down…

Most had massive damage to their armor, crushed and shattered pieces strewn about them where they'd fallen. But this one…his damage was minimal. But instantly recognizable.

A single, singed hole had cut through the center of his chestpiece. Reaching out, she touched her finger to the plasteel; no sharp edge, no frayed internal nano-fibers. It had melted rather than fractured. Beneath the hole, the soft under-layer of the bodysuit had also melted back about the neat wound; a single, accurate stab to the heart. Perfect; precise. No blood—the wound had cauterized as it had been cut, blackening the flesh.

She looked again to the destruction about her…and saw them on the walls; brief, burned slashes, as if someone had needed more room to wield his weapon, but had carried on regardless.

Mara rose, unable to swallow against her tightening throat as the realization began to coalesce, and closed her eyes, opening her limited senses to the Force. It was now, with a conscious choice to search, that she sensed it—that thrum of dense connection, that thick knot of tamped-down vehemence that she knew could only possibly be Luke.

He had done this. Why? Her eyes skipped the carnage. The fury. The unrelenting onslaught.

Realization came like a physical blow—

Luke.

 _Luke_ was the threat that Palpatine was facing.

.

.

.

.

.

Leia pushed herself to her feet, heart thudding, breath short, reaching deep into her own abilities to clear the last vestiges of effect from the Force lightening which Sidious had hurled at her.

The duel had moved back across the narrow bridge and onto the cramped walkway that circled the turbolift, whose curved wall still sparked and smoked from previous saber strikes.

Kicking forward on the offensive, Sidious forced Luke back two fast steps, gaining the space and the time to bring his saber up for a high horizontal blow. With zero room to maneuver on the constricted walkway Luke ducked down rather than try to counter it, so that although Sidious tried to angle the blade mid-swing, its momentum was too great and it embedded deep into the wall until the hilt hit metal.

A bright surge of light flashed across the chamber as the panels above the embedded saber blade exploded outward, thrown across the chamber like missiles and forcing both duelists to flinch back.

With a rending screech of metal against metal, the final safety mechanisms failed and the turbolift within the shaft dropped in a thunderous cacophony which shook the narrow lift shaft. Increasingly erratic, the carriage rebounded against the walls in freefall until it careened into the chute's foundations, the impact enough to shake the entire tower.

The detonation knocked both duelists to their knees as a dense cloud of compressed air and dust thudded out into the room through the ruined opening, filling it with choking black smoke which seared the back of Leia's throat as she closed her eyes against the rush of fine debris it carried within it.

Blinking gritty eyes, she stared into the billowing cloud, ears ringing from the sudden change of pressure. At its center, like the flash of lightening in stormclouds, red and blue light splashed in vibrant sweeps, clashing in bright splashes of vivid sparks, the only light in the dimly-lit chamber.

The cloud ebbed back, displaced by the fast movement of bodies in its midst, settling out and rolling into the chasm about the duelists as they crossed the narrow walkway, Luke on the offensive, Palpatine giving ground. With a shriek of failing metal the bridge jolted and twisted, part-collapsing to one side, its floor wildly skewed, handrail loosing a sound like a gunshot as it snapped under the strain.

Further across than Luke, Palpatine backstepped quickly onto solid ground and immediately turned to hack the other handrail free, as the walkway swayed precariously.

Seeing the danger Leia lifted one hand, intending to yank her brother clear, but Luke had already lunged forward with a yell, sending a roiling swathe through the billowing smoke as he brought his blade round and up in a high overhead swing, its bright blue beam reflecting off dust and debris thick in the air. Sidious backstepped, scarlet saber lifting to counter the incoming blade.

Luke changed the blow mid-strike as Sidious moved to defend, and Leia remembered how he'd done this to her when they had dueled, the ultimate feint. To change a blow mid-strike required exceptional speed and dexterity to overcome momentum. And if it required that of the attacker within the split-second fall of the blow, then it required even more from the defender, who had to react inside of that split-second.

Sidious gave ground as the dust cloud churned about him, the only counter not to even try. He stumbled on unseen debris, feet slipping as he backed quickly across the open space at the center of the chamber, saber held out before him one-handed, his other arm reaching out behind him in search of the handrail which signaled the wide run of steps; high ground.

Barely across the fast-disintegrating bridge Luke threw out one hand as Sidious backed up the steps, and the handrail to Sidious' side snapped free from its retainers with grating metallic resounds as each connection sheared and failed, the heavy metal rising to writhe like a striking snake.

Palpatine danced aside, forced to turn to counter it, both hands lifting.

Luke ran forward, still winded but forcing himself to take the steps three at a time.

Not fast enough.

For a second Leia thought that he'd stumbled in his headlong rush; it took another for her mind to process what was happening. With the threat of the writhing metal gone, Palpatine had brought his spread hands and all of his attention down to the steps at Luke's feet. As his foot came to each tread it collapsed beneath him, wrenched away, robbing him of momentum.

With a yell of effort he threw himself up and forward over them in a somersault, saber coming around mid-air—

Again Palpatine sought to hurl him bodily back using the Force, but this time was himself wrenched from where he stood to be pulled into the same arc and velocity, as Leia sensed Luke snatch out to lock onto him through the Force.

Abruptly as it had been summoned the power of the throw evaporated, and both opponents fell to the ground, catching themselves lightly as the final remnants of the smoke settled about them, Luke with one hand to the ground to steady himself, Palpatine with a solid thud of poised muscle.

Each stood slowly, breathing heavily, deeply wary.

Leia stepped back slowly towards the wreckage of the walkway, aware that any chance she'd had to intervene without breaking her brother's concentration was long since spent.

As she did so a flash from the blackness of space beyond the vast circular viewport caught her eye, bringing the greater plan back to the forefront of her concerns for long moments. The Rebel destroyers were still being pummeled by the _Executor_ , a bright halo of unremitting firepower that she spewed out at a relentless rate, raining unerringly down on the Rebellion's pre-eminent capital ships at close range. To lose even one of them would be catastrophic.

Sidious didn't miss her anxiety, taking the time in this brief respite to lift his chin and grin, eyes flicking briefly away from Luke. "Lured into a battle they cannot win. There aren't enough Rebel ships in existence to face the massed firepower of this battle station. They'll be destroyed, like the vermin they are. They're fleas on a nexu, for all the damage they can inflict."

Hand about his ribs Luke straightened a fraction, bringing Sidious' attention back to him as those bright ocher eyes narrowed, blood-red blade thrumming in his hand. Luke crouched a fraction in response, moving to the balls of his feet, his father's blue-white blade twitching up. But they were still a step too far apart to rekindle the duel as Luke moved slowly to his left, forcing Sidious to turn with him.

"Fleas. That's all anyone is to you. Insignificant."

"You…" Sidious tilted his head, still breathing heavily. "You could have been so much more. A waste." Again he smiled, the taunt in his words crystal clear. "But then you were always the disappointment."

"Because I asked why? Because I didn't obey blindly, every time? Because I'm not a mindless, soulless machine, like this? This is the only thing you'll ever value— automatic obedience every time, exactly as programmed. Every preset code, every automated system. Mindless execution of any and every command."

" _My_ command," Sidious declared. "This _triumph_ will bring down her miserable Rebellion, today."

"How?" Luke growled in dismissal, glancing out to the distant battle. "It can't even see its enemy, let alone fire on them. This is the _Executor's_ fight. The Death Star's sole purpose here was to keep you safe whilst you were entertained, a monument to your own ego. It can't even fire on the Rebel ships unless…" His voice dropped away, eyes going back to the hulk of the _Executor_ , the only capital ship visible from here.

Why…?" Luke's saber dropped a fraction, back straightening, head tilting to the _Executor_. "Why stay where it is this long, under heavy fire? Why not…just…"

He trailed off, eyes returning to the distant battle— Leia stared at her brother, knowing she was seeing his comprehension of the greater plan—hadn't Han always claimed that a lifetime close to his master had meant that Luke could predict Sidious' mind and his machinations; identify his plans?

Then he looked from it to Leia…and she saw in his eyes that the fleet was lost.

She turned, looking afresh at the battle—at the fury of bright power which formed a halo about the beleaguered Super Star Destroyer, Rebel ships the size of small cities throwing inconceivable flares of raw energy against its shields as it stood its ground.

Stood its ground… ' _Why stay where it is this long, under heavy fire?'_

For the first time, she looked at the battle from an Imperial's eyes. From onboard an Imperial ship…onboard the Death Star. Those were the most powerful capital ships in the Alliance fleet out there, gathered together, using the _Executor_ as a shield between themselves and the Death Star—

' _Why stay where it is?'_

The most powerful ships in the Alliance fleet. Gathered together in tight formation, to hide in the _Executor's_ shadow—

' _Why stay where it is this long, under heavy fire? Why not…just…'_ Jump. To lightspeed.

If the _Executor_ jumped, then the core of the Alliance's destroyers were gathered together in a tight group, under the Death Star's planet-killing weapon.

It all ended, in a single shot.

"Luke…" She whispered his name, desperate plea and blind faith wrapped together.

"Stop," One hand still about his ribs, Luke ground the words at Sidious. "Stop it now—or I will."

"You cannot," Sidious said with absolute certainty, that vermillion blade thrumming as it twitched in his hand.

"Yes I can," Luke said quietly, the composure in his quiet voice at odds with the myriad of fine cuts and welts which covered his face, sweat and blood and grime smeared together. But the conviction that laced through it, the cool assurance in those unwavering blue eyes, made the request a solemn threat. "Don't make me."

"To help them?!" Sidious howled the accusation, outraged. Then his voice lowered, taking on a darker edge as his lip curled. "Or to help her?"

When Luke remained silent, chest still heaving from the duel, Sidious loosed that death's head grin.

"One command," he made the words a taunt. "And Brie will hear me, with or without the Rebel's petty play of blocked communications, and follow my order—as you would have done, once. This station is already primed."

"Don't do it," Luke said, half request, half warning.

Sidious only grinned wider. "Try to stop me," he invited.

.

Luke came in fast, lightsaber igniting. There was no pause, no setting of blades en-guard, no hesitancy. He ran at Sidious, changing to a Force-augmented flip at the last moment, high and long, saber a whirling river of blue-white light as his body twisted mid-air. Unprepared, Sidious lurched aside so that Luke cleared him entirely, turning as he landed into a solid squat close to the wide stairwell so that his back was to Sidious, one knee to the deck, lightsaber dousing to silence.

Before Sidious had reacted, Luke had kicked off to disappear into the deep shadowed space beneath the high platform which housed the throne. Instantly he was gone, dark clothes lost in the dense darkness of the cavern-like space, the last of the choking dust that was still settling in the air billowing briefly beneath the overhang.

A third of the room in length, its low roof defined by the floor of the platform above it, it now hid Luke as effectively as it had earlier hidden Sidious.

Pursing his lips to a thin line, Sidious tilted his head and stalked for the overhang, his breathing visible from ten paces away to Leia, his shoulders heaving with every inpull. He slowed to the edge of the restricted space, head and shoulders angling to see beneath, every inch the predator.

A few of the consoles nearer to the edge of the shadowed space flickered soft blue light in standby but their hazy glow, defined by the dust and debris thrown up as the duel had decimated the massive chamber, blinded the eye to the darkness beyond them, only serving to make the shadows denser.

Leia scowled into the gloom, trying to see what her brother was doing…because to shy from the duel when he'd finally appeared to find his commitment seemed at odds. And it was clear that Sidious wouldn't be drawn into such a disadvantage as he prowled at the edge of the overhang, unwilling to enter the cramped space beneath where his size and strength were nullified.

"How long do you think you can hide?" Sidious yelled the taunt as he stalked the edge, likely trying to use the Force to locate Luke, but being countered by abilities equal to his own.

"Come in and get me," Luke's disembodied voice invited from the shadows.

"Losing your nerve?" Sidious goaded.

"Come and find out."

Instead Sidious grinned, turning about, bright ocher eyes locking onto Leia. "I've no need to, when you're so patently easy to manipulate."

He set forward to Leia, saber held out to one side so that the tip brushed the deckplates, firing brief shocks of sparks as it trailed through unseen power cables and support struts.

Leia felt the air leave her lungs in a rush as she gathered herself without retreating, hand tightening about her lightsaber, feet sliding to a combat stance—

Luke came out from the shadows to the near side of the overhang at a dead-run partway between them, saber igniting as he powered towards Sidious, who took a single step back to set his weight, raising to the balls of his feet, blade en-guarde.

At six paces out, Luke threw his saber overhand at Sidious. It windmilled mid-air, the movement too fast to be anything but Force-controlled, a wide sweep of danger on an unpredictable path, taking Sidious' attention entirely as he was forced to drop his saber to one hand and throw out the other to channel the Force.

Leia blinked in shock; to voluntarily give up your only weapon was a dangerous gamble—

Then Luke did something equally unexpected, launching into a series of flick-flacks to gain momentum as he ran toward Sidious empty-handed.

Clearly as thrown as Leia was, attention split, Sidious used the Force to slap the incoming saber to the side at the same moment that Luke launched into a high somersault over Sidious' head, hand stretching out—

His saber, still in the air after being hurled aside, whirled neatly back at speed to slap into his palm as he reached the top of his somersault. Sidious was now abruptly faced with an incoming blade.

In an indefensible position he hadn't expected and wasn't prepared for, the Sith dropped to his knees, lightsaber half-raised in a wild effort to stave off the blue-white blade that arced overhead in a wide sweep. Luke twisted as he flipped to keep Sidious in range, forcing him to scrabble wildly to get clear, throwing himself forward in an awkward tumble then scrambling to his feet to turn about.

Leia stared, breathless, amazed that he had managed to somehow avoid the immense range of the wide blow.

Luke dropped into a crouch as he landed to absorb the impact, so low that his hands went to the floor, one with palm spread, the other holding his still-ignited saber, hilt down, so that the coruscating blade embedded deep to the hilt into the deck plates.

Palpatine kicked off on one heel, powering towards Luke's crouched form, and Luke brought the saber up in a wide underhand swing from the ground, flicking it forward. The wild gout of sparks from damaged underfloor systems flared as the saber came free, thrown out in a bright arc towards Palpatine's face.

Palpatine veered, arm lifting to protect his eyes as the heated sparks singed into his clothes and hair, and already Luke was gone, twisting about and pushing off, heading for the deep shaft which circled the turbolift.

In a bound he reached the clustered cylinders which Leia had jumped from in her duel with Mara, and kicked off without pause to leap the chasm. Palpatine's blade sliced the curved top from the cable cap that Luke had kicked off from an instant later.

Luke landed to the narrow walkway about the turbolift shaft, one hand to the remnants of the handrail to absorb momentum. It crumpled, pulling another strut free and wrenching the entire platform a further from the ravaged central turbolift column, barely holding his weight.

Palpatine hesitated, stalking along his side of the drop, unwilling to make the jump to the narrow, unstable walkway now that Luke stood ready.

Having bought himself a moment's grace Luke's eyes flicked briefly to Leia, and she took a breath to speak, to yell a warning—and paused, sensing the focused connection of his thoughts as he reached out to her through the Force.

– _Leia, the overhang. The consoles at the back of the overhang–_

She jolted slightly, shocked both that he'd made contact at all, and at the single-minded focus of his intent. But she backed up slowly whilst all of Palpatine's attention remained on her brother, realizing now that Luke had made the aggressive rush to draw Sidious to the far side of the big chamber, away from the overhang.

In the shadows beneath the upper platform the consoles remained dark, only the occasional status light flashing, leaving her wondering why he'd sent her here. What did he want her to— there! At the furthermost console a ghostly glow flickered, part-active. She moved quickly to it, reading the words on a small dark screen:

| ◊= Biometric scan accepted |  
| ◊= Code prompt: Celadon 433 |  
| ◊= Input response? |  
| ◊= ? « |

She stared at the flashing prompt, uncertain what she was looking at. Code for what? What response?

– _Leia?–_

Sensing the question in his contact, she realized what she had to do. Closing her eyes, she reached out to her brother. His mind was agitated, difficult to lock onto, understandably preoccupied. – _Luke…Celadon 433–_

– _Ogon 660–_ His reply was instant; harried but resolute.

Heart pounding, she tapped in the code. The console flashed, screen blanking for long moments, in which Leia's mind overran with possibilities. She knew he held command codes…did this give him access to the station's firepower—could he stand down the superlaser, disable the targeting…?

The screen flashed again:

| ◊= Code prompt: Indigo 923 |  
| ◊= Input response? |  
| ◊= ? « |

She glanced up; in the brief moments lost, Sidious had prowled his side of the deep chasm, eyes traveling the space as he looked for a way to cross without using the already decimated bridge, lightsaber blade cutting a hazy scarlet line through settling dust and the diffuse glow of muted starlight.

– _Luke…Indigo 923–_

He'd barely glanced to her before Sidious threw out his hand, fingers spread, and the unstable central walkway that Luke perched on let out a wild shriek as it wrenched another foot down, the pins that held it anchored spanging free like gunshots.

Luke crouched, hands to the fractured deck as the far curve dislodged entirely, debris and deckplates breaking free to tumble into the chasm. He let out a yell as he threw his hand out and up, and the loose deckplates jarred to a halt and hurled back towards Sidious, forcing him back two fast steps, hands raised as he summoned a hasty shield.

– _Leia–_ He glanced to her as he switched focus. _–Cobalt 188–_

She tapped in the cipher, fingers numb.

| ◊= Code prompt: Anthracite 790 |  
| ◊= Input response? |  
| ◊= ? « |

Leia cursed at the complexity, reaching out. _–Luke; Antracite 790 –_

He was backing hastily along the curve of the narrow walkway which swayed with ever step, and linked to his mental state she sensed him waver as he tried to split his attention, unable to come up with the correct response.

– _Sienna…..–_

He broke off, his entire attention shifting. Leia glanced up as Sidious let out a yell.

"Don't speak to her!" Realization made him howl the words in a fury, like a spoiled child deprived of the center of attention. "Me—you look at me! You look _to_ me, always!"

"For what?" Luke yelled the words across the chasm, all the frustrations that had built up within him given voice. "There's nothing left—nothing to respect, nothing to honor. Was there ever? Look at you, look at what you do! I won't follow you. I won't serve you. I won't let you do this any more."

He straightened a fraction; visibly bracing, his voice leveling out to an odd calm as he met his Master's eye. "You say I'm incapable of any kind of rational decision…and maybe you're right. Maybe I can only ever act on what I feel. But what if there's nothing wrong with that? Because I still know what I want to be…and it's not this. It's not you."

Sidious let out a howl, jumping off from the last struts of the wrecked bridge and to Luke's side of the chasm, his saber wheeling about him at head-height, the blow wild and erratic.

Luke fell back, moving quickly around the narrow walkway as it wrenched further from the wall, feet slipping on loose debris as Leia called out his name.

The formidable blow powered in above his head as he ducked, embedding deep into the wall of the turbolift shaft in a gout of bright sparks. Sidious didn't free it, but instead pushed toward Luke, dragging the blade through the metal panels, knowing it would free itself—

Luke swiftly loosed his grip on his own hilt to one hand and stepped forward to slam it against Sidious', pushing the heel of his second hand to it for purchase so that it trapped Sidious' hand about his hilt against the curved metal wall plates.

Sidious heaved to free his hands, shoulders bunching. With a yell he slammed bodily into Luke, knocking him back far enough that he managed to free one hand, swinging it instantly into a backhand blow. Luke ducked low and to the side in avoidance, enabling Sidious to drag his blade free in a wide arc, tracing a slew of hot sparks.

Both men flinched back, Luke with one arm to the low handrail, the other over his head to protect his eyes. Immediately Sidious' blade sliced down into the tubular rail, cutting through the point that Luke's hand had gripped a moment before.

Throwing himself backwards, Luke's shoulder impacted against the curve of the turbolift wall, making him hunch for a brief moment, no more than a single eyeblink, before he pushed free.

Leia sensed the susurration of the Force within the wall at his side, and yelled a warning. Live wires wrenched out from within the devastated panels, sparking as they snapped free to one side. Luke swung about and used his lightsaber to cut a vertical slice into the wall just before him, severing power to the cables in a stutter of sparks as they scratched and sliced across his neck and face and eyelids, but held no greater threat, their energy gone.

Still, he'd flinched in automatic protection of his eyes, and Sidious lunged forward.

Leia sensed the flare of precognizance within the Force as Luke intersected the blow with his eyes still closed, muscles answering the warning on intuition, so that his blade was already in place to counter Sidious' long before he'd seen it.

He caught the incoming blow just long enough to jerk back and away, then immediately doused his saber as Sidious tried to trap it, so that the Sith's scarlet blade gouged deep into the wall panels under its own momentum, stopping only when the hilt jarred against the metal sending another wild flare of sparks which Sidious flinched back from with a brief, shocked howl.

Instead of pushing the advantage Luke backed up two fast steps in the narrow space of the failing walkway, glancing to Leia as he did so.

– _Leia; Sienna 946–_

This had to be it. It had to be complete. The screen flashed:

| ◊= Code prompt: Ash 205 |  
| ◊= Input response? |  
| ◊= ? « |

" _Come_ _on!"_ She slammed her hand against the console in frustration. _–Luke; Ash 205–_

Again that extended pause, as Luke fought to recover the memory under pressure. Each level must have had a series of codes, number and color, each distinctive prompt requiring a different response based on the progression, the possible outcomes increasing with every level. Leia waited, hands clenched to fists…

 _–Opaline 886–_

She entered the code with trembling fingers…

| ◊= Autodestruct access enabled |  
| ◊= Preset delay twelve minutes |  
| ◊= Activate? |

Autodestruct…autodestruct! The entire station!

Her hand twitched to the square push button that was lit in silent prompt—then paused. Twelve minutes. She glanced to the unrelenting duel, to the devastated room and destroyed turbolift, her palm hovering over the console…

Another bright flash of intersecting blades brought her eyes up.

How could they get out of here in twelve minutes…? Realization skittered up her spine, leaving a cold trail—

Or did Luke intend for only her to leave?

She stared, breathless. Suddenly everything was at stake, everything to lose. Her mind flashed back to Corsin a year earlier, to the vast explosion that had ripped out into space when she'd thought she'd lost him forever. To the moment when her stomach had heaved and her throat had locked, the galaxy receding to a single tone as she'd felt him ripped away from her.

She couldn't do that again, couldn't bear it.

"Luke…" The word was whispered inside a broken breath… but he turned—for a brief second, he turned.

And she knew.

Something had changed. In his actions, in his sense, in his focus.

The duel had moved past its duelists. His motives had crystallized; that final resolve that had tipped the scales was rolling forward with gathering strength:

 _Stop this._

 _Stop the battle. Stop the bloodshed. Stop the war._

 _Stop the instigator._

That was his entire focus in this moment—just that.

Not past or present or future, no fears or attachments. Just that.

He didn't expect to leave; was fully prepared to die with the man whom he believed he'd betrayed.

The image slid into her thoughts in flawless Force-fed focus; this chamber, empty, perfectly lit, undamaged. A memory; a map. Knowledge absolute that there was a narrow enclosed stairwell whose entrance was hidden, set into the wall of the main chamber at the far side of the turbolift shaft.

She shook her head _—I won't leave without you—_

Her brother's frustration flooded her mind, wrapped about with another image: the console, the red-lit activation. It glowed, overtaking all else, making Leia's hand tremble where it held inches above it… She snatched her arm back, taking a breath.

"We leave together…or we stay, together." She yelled the words, knowing he'd hear.

Sidious turned about at Leia's shout, ocher eyes momentarily skipping the room, searching for where the voice had originated. They lit on her where she stood beneath the shadows of the overhang illuminated by the now-active console, one hand curled about her saber, the other gripping the edge of the panel where the intermittent flash of the ready toggle shone bright.

"What have you done," he growled the challenge, head twitching laterally like a predator trying to lock down its prey. In the next moment he straightened, words released in a roar of fury, "What have you done?!"

Disengaging from the duel he turned and ran for the edge of the walkway, clearing the decimated bridge in a wide leap which brought him down hard ten paces into the main arena. Instantly he was up and powering forwards, thundering towards Leia, lightsaber raising, the weight of his footfalls shaking the floor beneath her feet.

Leia braced, heart thudding, every muscle tensing.

He reached the overhang and his foot landed, the momentum slamming down, a rush of Force-augmented power that displaced the air—

And was gone, lifting from her view inside of a single heartbeat, making her blink in shock…

A voluble _thud!_ shook the platform above her, and the bright actinic flare of a scarlet saber blade sliced down through the ceiling in a spray of molten steel, missing her by inches as she twitched away.

She fell purposely back onto the deck plates, hand slipping free of the console, scrabbling aside as the scarlet blade slid up and away from view— to stab back an instant later having followed her path, its bass drone magnified in the constricted space, its harsh red light blinding her for a moment. Head to the floor she kicked backwards as the red hot sparks singed her clothes, lighting her own saber to slap it aside, blinding herself further. She came up against another console with a heavy bang to the side of her head which lit stars in her vision, pushing off from it as the ruby blade sliced forward through the darkness to rip through the inactive console, coming so close to her head as she flinched aside that she thought she heard her hair singe—

A yell, and a thud trembled the platform above her—and the ruby blade was gone, pulled free to face the more immediate threat.

Through the slices cut into the metal-plate roof she saw brief flashes of bright red and incandescent blue which burst through the blind afterglow of Sidious' saber. Heard the slide and stamp of feet moving quickly; the brief exclamations of effort or shock.

Scrabbling up she ran to the edge of the overhang, feet slipping on debris and dislodged deckplates as she spun about, smoke and the acrid smell of burned insulation thick in the air.

The duel had morphed; she could see it distinctly, with a duelist's eye. Luke's resolve had centered…and with it, so had the duel.

There were no nods to convention, any more. No pretty plays to please the eye at this level of combat. No more big roundhouse blows, no opportunities to elicit them allowed. It had tightened and become an altogether different beast, quicksilver fast and wildly fluid. This was two warriors at the peak of their ability and resolve. This was proficiency thousands of hours in the making, and it gave no quarter to civility or custom, every move taking Sidious close to checkmate.

This— _this_ was what her brother could do. This was how he fought, when all doubt was stripped away. Was this the Sith…or the pure light to the very center of his being, given control? Utter focus that had passed beyond emotion, or only that; those raw and tattered wounds that remained forever at the very core of his being.

She knew only that he had passed beyond any attempt that anyone could make to reach him.

Sidious fell back as Luke came forward with fast, darting blows. Thrust, cut, underhand, overhead. Always moving, forcing Sidious into small corrective steps on the spot, forcing his saber in too tight, where maneuverability and opportunity became limited.

Luke broke to a feint, telegraphing then not laying the blow, fracturing Sidious' timing, breaching the rhythm of the duel, sidestepping against the line of Sidious' torso and forcing another brief resetting of weight…and as it was made he came in—fast.

Sidious' defensive counter was a little too weak to Leia's practiced eye, a little too high, the forced break of step rendering his timing a fraction out.

Able to catch the blade within his own momentum, Luke rolled both saber blades together in a fast motion which locked them. As Sidious tried pulled free Luke kept his blade close, rolling it through a tight figure-eight which forced Sidious into the same.

The blades chased each other in a wall of living light, neither opponent willing to break the loop and take the brunt of the momentum.

It was the smallest thing—a fraction of movement on Luke's part; a twisting release of one hand from his hilt, to continue the move but relinquish any possible power as he did so—

Sidious would surely take advanta—

Luke's hand shot out on the downward twist, to grab the hilt of Sidious' saber—the only possible moment that he could have—and push.

There was no strength in the move, only the element of complete and utter surprise. It was an insane risk, a precarious gamble—a deep and absolute knowledge of his opponent.

The twist of their still-moving wrists—the power of Sidious against Luke's failing grip—forced both hilts back a fraction. Had the figure of eight sweep continued on its new path it would have intersected with Luke's shoulder, close to his neck…but his hand against Sidious' wrist had nudged both blades a fraction back again—

And Sidious was forced to make a fast side-step rather than risk a glancing blow to his own leg.

A fraction of a second—a tiny mistake that escalated, risk versus advantage.

The pressure against his saber released, Luke slid his blade back, leaving Sidious' saber too low, his feet too close together, balance compromised—

The blue-white blade came in with a bass growl; a single stab, one-handed—

It buried deep into the center of Sidious' body just below his ribs, passing through flesh with no resistance to burst clear close to his spine, casting a welt of sulfurous shadows across his back as Leia let out a gasp.

The blade was pulled free instantly as Luke stepped back and away.

Sidious fell to his knees, his lightsaber tumbling from loose fingers as his hands clasped across his stomach, mortally wounded—

.

.

There was no name for the emotions that howled within Luke as he turned away when his Master fell. No way to curb or contain them. They rolled through and over him, leaving him dizzy, breathless, triumphant. Beaten, lost, alone.

He walked slowly to the far side of the throne, and stared at it for a long time as his Master's breath rasped behind him, ever more labored. Dousing his father's saber he reached to touch the empty throne, aware of how much it had always meant to those who had shaped him—his Master, his father—yet how little it meant to himself…and paused, aware that his hand was trembling. Why was he trembling now—why only now?

He looked past it to the throne, trying to determine whether it was that at all, without his Master's presence to make it so. When he could speak, his own voice was quiet and calm, and he heard it as if from a great distance. "Remember when you first ordered me to kill a man, Master? I remember. I remember that he begged you for mercy…and you told him it wasn't yours to give."

He turned as Palpatine looked up. Watched realization overtake those pained features.

Luke stared, head twitching as he was wrenched back to that moment; that memory. Palpatine had made him a killer in that moment. Had changed him fundamentally, inside. Yet he still remembered how it had shaken him, how it had eaten at him; had burned something within him dry… As it was meant to do, he supposed.

"It wasn't mine to give either, though: mercy. You saw to that." The noise, the pandemonium inside Luke's head as he spoke had suddenly ceased, as if he existed within the eye of a violent storm; a surreal, brittle calm so wired and wild that it hurt. "I once told you that everything I was, you'd made me. And I remember…I remember how pleased you were. You made it easy for me, you see, Master. You made it so easy for me to kill, no matter what I felt."

Palpatine's hand flailed for and grasped at the far arm of his throne as he struggled to rise, trying to put space between himself and his advocate… Luke didn't acknowledge the latter at all as he turned back to the throne that had meant so very much to his Master, allowing him the time to rise; he deserved to be on his feet, at least.

He stared at the abandoned throne, continuing in those same, even tones. "You told me that anyone I cared about, anyone who remained close to me for any length of time, would eventually die because of me…told me I was Darkness and death. You went to such lengths to teach me that. And I believed you. I believed, because I believed _in_ you. Because everything you said was absolute and unquestionable…so how could it be otherwise?

The man…the _man_ to the edge of his vision rose shakily, hands clasped against his stomach, trying to voice his plea…and Luke turned, that blanket of familiar calm pressing in about him as he straightened, no trace of uncertainty.

 _Never hesitate_ —that was what this man had always taught him. He rolled his saber hilt to a tighter grip in his hand as he stepped forward, activating it and bringing his arm in decisively as he did so, adept enough that the blow was one-handed, the final stab delivered with the power and assurance of a seasoned killer, just off-center of his opponent's chest, with enough force that the hilt's nozzle didn't stop until it hit bone, driving Palpatine back two staggering steps, outstretched hands grasping Luke's shoulders, eyes wide.

For once—for once, proximity didn't make Luke try to pull away. For once, this one, last time, he stepped closer, voice low.

"You were so proud of me, because I could kill no matter what. So proud of yourself, that you'd created this." He held his Master's eyes; allowed the guilt and the grief to be visible in his own. He'd always felt it slice deep within, at this moment…with anyone.

But such emotions had never stopped him—this man had seen to that. "You were right, of course," he said quietly; apologetically. "When you said that everything I cared about would die, because of me." They were inches apart, eyes locked. "Hurts, doesn't it, to have your heart cut out. At least I was quick…you did it to me by increments."

He dragged the saber blade free in a single, swift yank, the half step back that he was forced to make wrenching him free of his Master's grasping hold to watch, as Palpatine collapsed down, hands curling tight to his grievously wounded chest.

Luke's clenched fist rose to his own chest as he watched his Master breathe his last, feeling the profound ache of empathy and guilt as it hovered over his thudding heart to rest against the words he'd had carved into his skin there; Occus Tor: _Black Heart._

A final, rattling, broken breath as the man who had once stood at the center of his galaxy became a corpse….

Within the silence the cacophony of emotions which had circled were unleashed once more to beat at Luke's mind and his soul with unrelenting intensity; a dragging screech of infinite, immeasurable turmoil. A loss so profound that it couldn't be measured. A relief so complete as to leave him weak.

A great, gaping hole of his own making within his soul, unplumbed and unfathomable…

And in the stillness which held him numb, his sister's hand reached out to touch his arm, the only warmth in the entire universe.

"You killed him." Shock and relief reduced her words to a breathy whisper.

Luke's head tilted in study, eyes locked on the corpse at the foot of the throne; this wasn't how he wished to remember, yet somehow he couldn't tear his gaze away.

"I answered all he taught me," he murmured at last. "I never did forget a single lesson…and retribution always meant so very much to him."

.

.

.

A sound howled through the air and rang strident and clear in the Force, like a wounded animal, and Luke turned, realization ripping into him; Mara. He'd thought she was long gone, onboard the _Executor_.

"You shouldn't be h—." He broke off, hearing himself speak the words, the last breath of a spent curse that had whispered within his visions so many times. Felt again that dense sense of darkness and tangles, of pain and loss.

Dousing his saber he set forward instantly, to have Leia reach out to grab at his arm. "Luke, no. She's not what you think, she can't be trusted."

He turned on Leia, voice tight. "Whatever happens…let her go. I gave you the Death Star—this is my price." She took a breath to speak, but he cut her off. "Your word?"

"Luke, she—"

"Give me your word!"

Leia stared a few moments longer, eyes searching his…then nodded mutely.

He held his gaze on her for long seconds, expression hard…. "Mean it."

Leia's breath left her in a silent gasp, the words cutting deep…but she had the strength to silently acknowledge that they were no more than she deserved, and nodded again, eyes lowering.

"Did you activate the autodestruct?" He asked tightly; a distraction. "Do it now."

As he made to move away she held to his arm, bringing his attention back to her. She stared, apprehension weighted with both desire and reluctance to know the truth. "Who…what is she to you?"

Luke almost spoke… but hesitated, glancing to Mara where she'd collapsed to the scuffed deck plates of the ruined chamber, then to back the crumpled cloak where his Master's dead body had lain. "You need to ask her that."

He turned and walked calmly forward, though he had no idea what to say; knew only that he couldn't see her in pain like this and not react.

.

.

.

.

.

Shira had been staring at the Death Star for the last minute in mute silence, heart fluttering, mind reeling, uncertain whether what she'd sensed was true. About her the bridge of the _Executor_ carried on, reports and demands constant in the run of the battle, those who worked so feverishly unaware that none of it mattered any more. None of it mattered.

Palpatine was dead.

Not a single being around her knew, yet she sensed it on a level more profound than any words could convey. Knew it as if she had been standing a single step from him.

Knew who had done the deed.

Stood alone to the front of the massive bridge, eyes on the Death Star…..she felt her lips curl to a slow smile. Felt her chest fill. Felt her excitement swell.

This was it. This was her moment. Her chance to shine. To take command. She'd always known—at the very core of her, she'd always known that Antilles was a power for change. But she'd never known how to harness that—until today.

Every fiber of her being sang at the chance he'd bought her—the chance she'd bought herself, with her gamble. She realized suddenly that she hadn't taken a breath since the moment she'd sensed the Emperor's demise, and gulped one in now, the act breaking the moment and freeing the lockjam of thoughts which had frozen at the realization of how close she was to victory.

Closer than she'd ever been! Closer even than before Palpatine's clone had crawled—

She gasped out a breath, stepping to the massive angled viewport to look down to the arrow-angled edge of the massive Super Star Destroyer.

The transports—Palpatine's clones! She whirled about, stringent tone cutting across the chatter of the bridge. "Ops—are the transports onboard?"

The man glanced down for excruciating seconds… "No, Ma'am. Close."

She wouldn't have this taken from her now—not when she was this close.

Palpatine had kept the method of his reappearance after Corsin secret—had been too paranoid to ever admit to the safety-net of clones. The only people who knew the whole truth of what was in those transports were herself, Antilles and Mara. Antilles didn't give a damn, and Mara…well, she wasn't here to know the details, if the clone transport was destroyed. If Shira wanted Mara's aid—and she did; necessity had made them a good team; it could do so again—then she needed only to make sure that the logs were altered to reflect her own version of events.

It was, after all, a battle. They were messy and chaotic, and the unanticipated happened all too often. The loss of smaller transports in the midst of a pitch battle between capital ships was surely commonplace…

She could do this. The impossible was already achieved; Palpatine was dead. Removing his clones represented no risk, now. No-one else knew what the transports were even carrying, other than those onboard…and they were about to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Pity; they'd been her own trusted men.

"Weapons," She hesitated one last time… "Stand down all guns protecting the transports."

The man scowled, confused. "Ma'am, they're not in the bay yet."

"I know," Shira said simply. "Stand down all guns."

"…Yes, Ma'am."

.

.

Han flinched, unable to look directly at the dense criss-cross of intense firepower thrown out by the _Executor's_ multiple heavy ship-to-ship guns, which lit the space about the docking bay entry that the transports carrying Palpatine's clones raced toward right now, the automated firing patterns recognizing the transports as friendly and halting fire with pinpoint accuracy to let them through. Behind them the _Falcon_ wrenched violently, though every time she pulled straight, not once breaking course as she threw everything she had at the transports.

"Chewie!" Han yelled again, following the _Falcon_ in, though he knew it was suicide.

The first shot smacked hard against his forward shields, making the yoke buck in his hands as his small I-TIE lurched pitifully. A second shot found him, his shields seconds away from failure—

Then it stopped. It all stopped.

The guns fell silent, their nozzles lifting to neutral. The bright barrage, his messy death, all reversed in the space of a single, staggering second.

"Now," Han hollered, "Chewie, now!"

Even as he shouted a bright flare lit somewhere to the front of the _Falcon_ , the exact point unseen by Han, sitting on her tail. He blinked as a run of eight ST2 missiles launched from the freighter in fast succession. They swerved briefly then corrected their course, homing in on their target unerringly without a single anti-missile gun firing up.

The first two couldn't correct in the short distance between the _Falcon_ and the bay, and exploded violently just above the entry, sending sparks and shrapnel in every direction as they tore off the Destroyer's outer skin.

Its nose inside the landing bay, the right hand freighter's heavy shields finally gave way as the missiles found it. A series of bright orange explosions ruptured its surface, the oxygen inside the bay giving them the power to expand into massive blooms as the transport tore apart, the fireball spreading rapidly through the bay and detonating the remaining incoming missiles in an expanding fireball whose bow-front hit the second transport with the added punch of the bay's gravity, so that it slammed part into the entrance jamb and part into the internal side wall in a tangle of metal as the explosion ruptured its hull. The fury of the superheated gas razed the entire bay, spending its oxygen in seconds before washing out into space.

The last Han saw as the _Falcon_ hauled herself clear, cutting coiling trails through the expanding smoke and gas as she skimmed the side of the massive Super Star Destroyer, was the entire bay in flames, huge gouts flaring ever brighter and denser.

Han hollered out a victory yell he hauled at his yoke with both hands, fighting his I-TIE's rattles as it caught the shock-wave—and suddenly he was spinning, his cockpit board loosing a run of screeching warnings as its weakened shields failed.

The brunt of the explosion batted at the small fighter's shell with a rending shriek as a brief flare of heat swallowed his cockpit entirely, so intense that he could feel the interior air bake as the superheated gas rolled over his hull. In fast, fragmented frames Han saw the edge of one of his massive angled wings rip free—

Then he was floating again, the starfield reeling dizzyingly, held into his seat only by his acceleration harness, his fighter dead in space. A few lights flickered; life support, comms—a warning that his shields were down, ironically.

He let out a slow, broken breath then hit the seals for his suit and started unbuckling his harness, wanting to be out of here before it became his coffin.

"Chewie," he said somberly. "Remember Corsin? I think I need a pick-up, again."

That was it. He'd done all he could do—done exactly what they'd trusted him to. Han looked from the burnt and blackened maw of the Super Star Destroyer's bay to the hulking mass of the Death Star, and felt a dense knot in the pit of his stomach.

Pushing off from his seat to haul himself clear of the dead TIE, Han held to its fuselage, watching the _Falcon_ make a tight arc to his position. "Hurry it up," he said to the Wook, his eyes going back to the Death Star; "I got a bad feeling."

.

.

.

.

.

On her knees to the far side of the Command Tower, hair falling about her face as her head had sunk low, throat locked, mind reeling inside a nightmare, Mara didn't realize that Luke had come close until he was before her, crouching down.

He'd been at the far side of the decimated chamber what seemed like a moment earlier, talking to the Jedi Leia Skywalker. Words her brain didn't bother to decipher in its desperate grief, save to register the familiarity with which the woman spoke to Luke. To her master's killer.

"…Mara?"

He reached out to her and she snapped back into the moment, arm coming up with force to bat his tentative touch away.

Acquiescent, he leaned back onto his haunches. "I had to, you understand?" He murmured the words quietly. "It had to stop, and I was the only one who could stop it."

She scrabbled up, but was too eager to back away from him and fell again, her legs numb. And all the time she stared; glared in outrage, venomous accusations crowded to a lockjam in her throat as she let out another hitched sob.

"Mara please…" He remained where he was, one hand out, palm up as if to calm a small child, and her fury that he thought her so fragile, so powerless, pulled her mind into painful focus so that words bled out past her grief, broken and breathless.

"I always looked past you—that was the problem… Even when we were young, on Coruscant, you always stood so quietly in the shadows, and I thought that's all you were. A little shadow. I always ignored you…right up to the point when we started sparring. And even then, even when you beat me every single time, I didn't really realize…" She looked him up and down, blinking watery eyes into focus. "That's what you do, isn't it—that's what you were taught to do; just stand quietly in the shadows and let everyone look past you, let everything drift past you…until you strike. We were all looking at this great threat to Palpatine's safety, this Rebel Jedi…and it was you, all along. It was always you." She touched to her own lips, remembering that first kiss; that profound sense of portent which had flooded through her when their lips had met. Her voice softened a fraction in wonder. "It was you…"

He stared for long moments, and she could sense his mind calculating what to tell her; how much. How cautiously. "It w…it was us," he said at last, as if it were obvious. "You lit the fuse, Mara. Without you, I would have just walked away at Rishi…long before we reached Rhen Var. I wouldn't have stayed, without you. No storehouse. No clones. No resurrection, no Palpatine, no threat. No walking away to keep you safe, no contact with the rebellion, no association with Leia, no connection… Don't you see? It was us. We set it in motion. That's what we sensed with every kiss—that fuse, burning down. We did this. But it's not—"

She rose awkwardly, backing up two stumbling steps, hand out before her. "Don't you dare! Don't you _dare_ try to pull me into this! You murdered him—you _murdered_ him! He was a father to you!"

"He killed my father," Luke said evenly, standing. "He ordered me to do it first—sent me to do it—but I couldn't. Then he sent you to kill my sister, because he knew it would turn the two of us against each other."

" _Sister_ —?"

"He didn't know that I knew—or maybe he simply didn't care. Intended to use it, as he used everything else." His open hand slowly raised to reach out as he spoke, and she backstepped awkwardly as he rationalized, voice soft. "It was all premeditated, Mara. Sending you to get close to Leia, setting Vader against me…everything was calculated to sever any possible alliance, to break any threat, to always work to his own advantage. That's what he _did_."

Tears were streaming down her face, bewildered pain burning at the edges of the chasm that had opened up within her. "You said you would give your life for him—you said that to me!"

"I did. And I meant it. But…" He shook his head slowly. "I wouldn't give Leia's. And I wouldn't give yours—not a single day more of it, not to twist like this. I'm sorry, Mara. I couldn't give that."

She stared…simply stared for the longest time, fighting to bring any semblance of sanity or reason to all this… But it wouldn't come, her mind spinning in freefall, a bleak mass of dark desolation knotting deeper and tighter by the second, until every nerve fired with a need to act. To do _something_.

Twisting about with a feral yell she lurched forwards, hand stretching out—

And for the first time ever, the Force answered her desperate desire…and her master's lightsaber flashed across the chamber to land in her palm, still warm from his touch.

The blade lit dense scarlet as she swung it wildly, fury giving her speed as it grated through the air, its course unerring.

He barely moved. The smallest angling of his shoulders as his blade ignited, the practiced flick of his wrist—and her blow was deflected to his side, sparking brightly as it slid past without contact, casually parried. And he stared, silent sympathy visible in his composed face—sympathy!

She let out a howl and took the hilt two-handed to swing it back, angling it up as she did so—

He leaned back slightly this time, lifting his blade beneath her own to intercept with just enough force to slide it clear, no counter attempted.

She yelled, eyes wild and accusing, chest heaving. Pulling the lightsaber back she made the feint of an inward blow, and as he moved to stop her she deactivated her blade and loosed it to one hand, freeing the other to grasp about his wrist as his own saber came in with placid dispassion to defend. No counter, no setting of his feet or his weight, no fight—

She didn't care—she didn't _care_! Yanking his arm aside she took a fast step forward and, inside his defenses, lifted her deactivated hilt and pressed the cowl to the center of his chest, triumphant.

He didn't move; made no effort to protect himself at all. Only leaned into the nozzle, as if it were a welcome release. Her thoughts swam, heart a drumbeat, wrung-out emotions a wild claxon which screamed inside her mind.

.

.

Luke stared as if from some distant third person point of view, as the deactivated saber nozzle jarred hard against his ribcage over his heart. He didn't look, didn't need to see it, only her. She was beautiful—she was so beautiful, even now, tear-wet eyes shining brighter than emeralds, porcelain-pale skin flushed. He would have wrapped her in his arms, if she'd let him.

But she wouldn't.

Somewhere deep within he felt utterly serene, listening to his own breath, to his thudding heart. Aware of her desolation and her grief and her rage as it rolled in hot waves across the ocean of cool stillness that had enveloped him.

Words trickled into being from the past, their weight finally coming to rest about him. Shira's prophesy whispered fulfillment as the saber nozzle pressed against the center of his chest.

 _۰_ _She'll break your little black heart. She will…because you'll break hers_ _۰_

"Do it," he whispered softly, utter calm against absolute fury.

Her hand trembled, jaw locked…

He closed his eyes, deactivating his saber, arm coming partway out to the side as he twisted the silent hilt in his hand so that it lay cowl back—an indefensible position. "It's okay, Mara—do it."

"Traitor." Her voice was a low snarl dragged up from the depths of her soul. "You traitorous, murdering bastard."

Her fingers tightened about the hilt, thumb to the stud that activated the blade—

Eyes closed, unable to look any longer at what he'd reduced her to, Luke sensed the change well up within her, roiling from pain to uncertainty to resolve…

But he didn't stop her.

Abruptly the hilt pulled back and the blade growled into life, harsh and discordant, cleaving the air as it was pulled away from his chest in anticipation of a blow—

A change in tempo as it slowed and twisted; an animalistic whine within the whip of its downward passage through the air—

Pain flared wildly, its intensity overwhelming, dropping him instantly to his knees with a broken gasp to double over…clasping the stump of his arm to his chest as the hand which had held his lightsaber—the hand which had killed their Master—fell free, lightsaber hilt clattering away.

The intensity peaked, a scarlet smear of raw agony which pulsed with every heartbeat…and somewhere within the dull realms of reality beyond it he heard her voice, acid-laced and unrepentant.

"Don't ever come near me again," she hissed, vehemence breaking her words. "Try, and I'll cut that black heart right out of your chest."

.

And she was gone, that black mass of desolate fury that now defined her slipping away from his pain-fractured senses. He crumpled, her words a wound that drove deeper than any blade.

He was distantly aware of Leia shouting out as she dropped down beside him, her hand reaching to his tattered arm, slender fingers cool against heated flesh—of her lifting her comlink to call for aid, voice too fast and too calm. All he could think of was that receding knot of black rage, burning with hatred as it melted into the shadows…and then it was gone, folding in on itself entirely.

He had created that—had compressed passion and trust into bleak, hostile ferocity. Had honed and tempered that blade as no-one else could to a bitter, betrayed fury.

"The fire in the forest," he murmured feverishly, remembering his Master's words.

.

.

.

.

.

"Ma'am, we have…we have a code broadcasting across all channels. I…think it's Imperial, but I don't have a reference."

Shira blinked, forcing her mind into the moment as she turned to the comms officer onboard the _Executor's_ bridge.

Word had already been relayed via Ops that both of the transports carrying Palpatine's clones, as well as the entire area around the bay in which they had tried to dock, had been destroyed by the Rebels. The intense heat of the missiles used meant that no sentient beings could yet enter the ruined bay, but automated droids were already on-site. Given the high temperature and concentration of the blast, it was unlikely that any organic matter had survived.

She was awaiting confirmation, just to be sure.

Meanwhile, she glanced to the officer at the comms console, feeling a frisson of nerves at this unexpected turn of events; she wanted no surprises now. "Does it have an existing decrypt cipher?"

The beleaguered man shook his head. "No Ma'am, none I know."

"Try cipher code nine-nine-six-two-gotal-epsilon."

"… No, Ma'am. Negative decrypt."

Shira frowned when Antilles' code failed. Was Mara still onboard? "Run Vertex code five-eight-one-orenth-zerek."

"Negative, Ma'am."

"Put it over the speakers."

The code hissed out in broken fractals, a brief burst of noise, then silence, then another brief run, then silence…

Shira listened, eyes narrowed…then backed up a step. No…no, he wouldn't. He couldn't—not after all they'd gone through to get it online. She looked quickly to the comm-chief. "Run peth-qek-vev-isk-isk-minus."

"Neg—wait, it's decoding."

' _726 – 725 – 724 – 723 – 722 – '_

Shira stared, wide-eyed; no….

' _719 – 718 – 717 – '_

Beside her, Admiral Griff frowned. "What is that—is it a countdown? To what?"

' _708 – 707 – 706 – '_

"What is that?" Griff repeated, voice rising.

' _702 – 701 - Warning: Self Destruct activated. Safe distance set at four thousand K from ground zero. 692 – 691 – 690 – '_

Shira whirled about. "Contact the Death Star. Get the senior officer on comms, now!"

"Ma'am…I can't—I can't get a response."

The tactical officer stood in his seat, voice rising in shock. "Ma'am, I've keyed into ops comms from the Death Star—all escape pods are being released on automated cycle."

"Escape pods?" Griff straightened, understanding coming slowly.

"Stop it," Shira shouted, striding to the edge of the inset crew pit. "Stop the countdown. Get someone in command on the comm!"

"Ma'am, I need active codes for the Death Star, to stop the countdown." He was looking hopefully up at her…and she had nothing. As far as she'd managed to climb up the chain of command, as close as she'd been to Palpatine, he hadn't trusted her sufficiently to allow anything higher than executive-level codes. The same ones that whoever was in command there likely held and had tried—which was why he was probably running to a transport right now, just like everyone else.

Antilles—he had done this! He held the full codes—had spoken openly with Palpatine about his reluctance to activate the Death Star in Palpatine's absence. _'I was unwilling to have it widely known that I held the means...'_ If Palpatine had trusted him enough to give him the codes which would activate it, then he'd probably been the only one who would also be trusted sufficiently to hold the codes to destroy it.

Shira's lip curled in frustration. Palpatine, reaching out from the grave to steal some of the glory that should have been hers to command. The Death Star would make her return—her seizure of power—so much easier.

"Find the Death Star's commander. Find a tech team. How long would it take to get our own tech team over there and into the system?"

The command officers stared at her from the crew pit, disbelieving. It fell to the Ops officer to speak. "We…wouldn't even get anyone there in time, Ma'am, let alone get them to a high security access hub. And if they did…"

He trailed off; there was no need to finish. What could they do? You couldn't break that kind of algorithm in minutes—you couldn't break it in months, with a full team and infinite computing power. That was the point of the code.

For long moments Shira stared out of the _Executor's_ viewport, lips pressed to a tight line of frustration… then her shoulders dropped a fraction, chin lifting.

It was a pity—a waste—but then maybe Antilles had been right along in his condemnation of the massive, un-mannable, high-maintenance installation; that it was a relic from a time when such brash statements were viable.

All that bristling firepower…yet in the end it had failed to protect the Emperor himself from a single man's revenge. What use was it, if it couldn't even do that?

Watching the escape pods jettison from the massive station in staggered swarms, interspersed by wave upon wave of every vehicle that could fly, Shira nodded her head once in acceptance.

Yes—her war, and her rise to power, would be a different kind of fight.

And to be fair, it was Antilles who had cleared that path for her, when she could never have done so alone. This, it seemed, was his price. If she ever hoped to pull him back under her influence, given all that he knew—all that Shira still needed from him—she should bear the cost gracefully.

She straightened, putting new authority in her voice.

"Recall all remaining fighters, and calculate for a jump to lightspeed which will take us over the border into Imperial territory. Put out the order for any craft capable of lightspeed to retrieve as many life-support capsules as possible. A coordinated jump will take place a half-minute before the self-destruct fires. Oh, and scan all Imperial ID frequencies. You're looking for a Vertex ID Code: a Hand code; Lieutenant Commander Jade is out there somewhere, and I want her onboard before we make the jump."

The silence was broken by a brief pip from the comms console, making the officer glance down to listen, then back up to Shira.

"Ma'am, we have information coming through from the automated fire crews in docking bay eight. The primary transport was completely destroyed in the missile attack. The bay's sealed off, heavy damage."

Shira nodded, dressing her delight with a somber face. "Have Alpha Group reported in yet?"

"Yes Ma'am. We also have a confirmation on Lieutenant Commander Jade's ID code. Her escape pod is being tractored into one of the larger escape ships right now."

"Good. Clear any Imperial craft that request permission to dock. And put out a homing beacon; we have less than four minutes to pick up as many escape shuttles as possible, then we evacuate the arena. Helm, refine the calculation for the lightspeed jump to Kuat military shipyard. Comms, open an all-channels comm."

"Yes Ma'am. All-channels comm is broadcasting now."

"Attention all Imperial craft. This is Admiral Brie, of the ISSD _Executor._ The Emperor is dead." She took a breath, and her next words came with more satisfaction than even she'd anticipated. "As his premier lieutenant and Admiral of the Ubiqtorate, I am assuming command of Imperial forces. All ships are to close on our co-ordinates, and await instructions for a lightspeed jump."

All eyes on the bridge stared at her…but not a voice raised in objection.

She smiled at Griff; she needed some support around her right now, and though he wouldn't have been her first choice, he'd suffice. Her partnership with Mara Jade would need to be reinstated, too. Again, not her first choice—Antilles would have been that—but at this moment it was highly unlikely that even she would be able to talk the man who had just killed the Emperor and locked the Death Star into self-destruct, that a career shoring up her power base in the new Imperial military was his best move. Let him cool his heels for a while…if he made it off the Death Star at all. If he didn't….well then she still had options.

For now, she had what she needed to move forward to her own agenda. In fact, the day could barely have gone any better.

She couldn't quite wipe the slight smile from her lips at that, turning back to the massive viewports which spanned the bridge— _her_ bridge. Her ship. Her fleet.

Her time.

.

.

.

.

.

 _EPILOGUE_

Han slowed beneath the Rebel shuttle on a windswept spit of land, whipped by high winds which buffeted the raised wings of their Lambda but slid smoothly over the squat, aerodynamic saucer of the _Falcon,_ thirty paces away _._

It was two days since they'd stood in awe on the bridge of the Rebel Destroyer _Halcyon_ , and watched as the debris of the destroyed Death Star lit bright trails over the velvet blue night of Rhen Var below them, racing like a meteor shower acrossits upper atmosphere and breaking into brief flares before it burned itself to nothing. Destroyed, because Luke himself had given Leia the military access codes.

Luke hadn't been there to watch, of course. He'd been unconscious in the medi-bay since he'd arrived, allowing them to sedate him without resistance, numb and silent, his tattered wrist being tended by a medi-droid.

Han had crept back to the medi-bay to watch the kid sleep out the events his actions had kick-started, thoughts drifting back to when he'd walked into Luke's quarters just one night previously onboard the _Executor_ , looking for Luke, who was still in that ill-fated meeting with Palpatine.

The night that the Death Star had arrived over Rhen Var. The night that Luke had gone to Palpatine, furious at having been excluded yet again. What was said, Han would never know—the kid had been typically tight-lipped. But Han remembered entering Luke's quarters onboard the _Executor_ in search of him, and jerking to the side as something huge on the far wall caught his eye.

The kid had always drawn such small, contained sketches; isolated moments, recalled from memory. People, places, things…all rendered in tight detail, linking together to form loose drifts across walls and desktops and floors. But always that; always those small, scratchy images, each one no larger than a fist.

Here, daubed the width of the wall and from floor to ceiling, was an echo from the past in more ways than one. Rendered in harsh black, fluid and fast, filling the wall entirely, dominating the room, was a copy of the canvas that had hung in Luke's quarters in the Imperial palace on Coruscant. The one which Han remembered vividly sitting in front of with this beaten and bloody fifteen year old kid who was still trying to fathom his way. Still trying to make sense of a wild and vicious life that had never—not once—given an inch or cut him a single break.

In bold strokes from which runs of black had dripped randomly, spattering floor and walls alike, were the three interlinked Capellan characters which together spelled the potential of both solace and safety to a kid who'd spent his entire life mired in the mud of Palpatine's constant manipulations:

' _Seek Solitude'_

Han had stared for a long time, wondering if Luke had fallen so far back that he was once again that kid caught in the unbreakable snare. Or whether recent events had forced him to recall the only thing which had ever held any kind of meaning in a life where every single step was a struggle weighted by the ominous, ongoing prophesy that the only man who had been any kind of an influence in Luke's broken life had repeated to him again and again: that eventually, by his very nature, the kid would destroy anyone he tried to hold close.

 _Seek Solitude_

Stood one day later in the medi-center, with all that still swimming in his thoughts, Han had sighed, shaking his head slowly. Kid was like a brother to him; Han new exactly how his mind worked. Knew that Luke was still somehow figuring that maybe, just maybe, if he lived by that scrawled rule, then it might cancel out Palpatine's claim.

If no-one ever got close, then no-one got hurt.

Staring at the bruised, sleeping kid, he'd known that Luke would isolate himself entirely, in an effort to try. Known that every single attempt made to dissuade him would only serve to push him further away.

So he was, he'd realized, psyching himself up to do the hardest thing in his life. Hold his tongue—for now—and give the kid the dignity of time and space to find out on his own terms that it wasn't the answer. When he did so—which he would—the very first time Luke reached out Han would be there, waiting. And so would Leia. Hell, it was more than likely that one or the other of them would cave long before that, and go looking for him. Probably both.

So he stared, committing that bruised face to memory. Dreading the kid waking up. Because he knew exactly where he'd go…

Luke had slept through the night as the Empire's last super-weapon had burned itself out. Slept all of the next day and well into that night, as if waking to face reality was just too hard. Slept until Leia had rested her fingers lightly to his temple and whispered his name.

Then his eyes had flickered open.

The first thing he'd said was that he was leaving. Just that.

They'd delayed him as much as they could, every possible persuasion exhausted not by logic or even by argument, but by Luke simply ignoring them. Going about his intention with the fixed concentration of a man acting on autopilot.

They'd bought one more night by slowing down the transfer of that damn YT freighter, in which Leia had picked up on his nightmares as a roiling darkness which she'd said seemed to wrap about him alone, a straightjacket pulling ever tighter. She'd gone to stand outside his room in the early hours of the morning, but hesitated before entering, and instead had listened to him alternately pleading and cursing, voice ever louder before ultimately he fell to flat-voiced resignation, his words unclear but his exhausted acquiescence disturbing. She'd listened in silence, no idea if he was asleep or awake.

.

So now, early evening, the _Falcon's_ ramp was down and her engines warming, ready for liftoff, as Han set towards it. Luke, still unused to his prosthetic replacement, was tinkering practically one-handed with something on an external under-hull plate, muttering to himself—or the freighter; hard to tell which. It went on for a minute or so as Han closed distance, the kid's voice slowly rising in pitch until he yelled briefly in no particular direction, his words taken by the wind as he threw the heavy, short-handled hull-plate ratchet across the shingle-strewn clearing…and spotted Han.

Han made a brief detour in his walk, calmly picking up the ratchet before he set forward.

"See, this is why you shouldn't take off on your own," he tried with forced lightness, holding the ratchet out. "Sooner or later you're gonna want to pick a fight with somebody, and if you're flyin' alone, the only person you get to gripe at is yourself."

The kid's shoulders forcibly relaxed and he took back the proffered ratchet, lifting it up to the hullplate to close it. "I can take care of myself, Han," he murmured quietly.

"I'm not sayin' you can't," Han said. "Hell, you just took down a Sith Emperor."

For a second the kid froze, whole body stilling…then his eyes shifted away, a scowl darkening his features. "I'm fine."

He straightened a little further, stepping past Han and clear of the _Falcon_ as Leia emerged from the shuttle, any trace of vulnerability clamped down—a trick he'd spent a lifetime refining, Han knew.

But in his mind as Han followed, he remembered watching from a distance just minutes ago as this kid who was now walking forward with such blithe confidence had, when he'd thought he was unseen, argued aloud with nobody. And everybody did that, when they were agitated. Everybody had spoken to themselves at some point—hells, Han had done his fair share of cursing his own actions aloud, when he'd thought no-one was looking. It was normal, right?

So why did this feel so wrong? Han shook his head as they slowed before Leia. It was pretty damn obvious really, why this was all kinds'a wrong. Willingly or not, the kid had turned his own life upside down and inside out in the last few days; everything he knew, everything he'd been taught to believe in and protect and to hold to. Everything he thought he was, he'd given up. Everything he'd been told to protect, he'd destroyed.

Something about it, about the way the kid had fallen to tight-lipped silence when Han had approached, had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. And he didn't like that—not around Luke. Not when the kid was set on going off on his own, like this.

But he wouldn't be dissuaded—not this time. And the more they'd tried, the more Luke had got that look in his eye…until there was nothing left to do but let him go willingly, or see him disappear without a trace, like last time.

This way at least they kept in contact. Hopefully.

"Sure you won't stay?" Leia tried as Luke slowed, already knowing the answer.

She leaned into Han, arms about herself in a hug as Luke glanced to the prepped _Falcon_ behind him. Her shoulders were tensed, and Han knew how hard she was fighting the urge to step forwards and wrap that hug about her brother. Knew, as Leia did, that it simply wasn't an option.

Luke shook his head. "I'm the most dangerous thing your Rebellion—your New Republic—can face. You know that. If you had one ounce of sense, you'd arrest me, lock me up and throw away the key."

Leia tilted her head, conceding to the inevitable and trying to make it as bearable as possible by lightening the moment. "I don't believe for one second that you'd let us."

The barest fraction of a smile tugged at his tight lips as he turned slightly. "You're probably right."

"Where will you go?" Han asked.

"Into the Unknown Regions." Luke tightened the fingers of his two day old prosthetic hand in close succession, clearly still unused to the sensation.

Han scowled, unhappy about the kid going that far beyond reach—he hadn't mentioned his intentions before now.

"Be careful," he intoned.

Luke smiled for the first time in days…and just for a moment, Han saw that fifteen year old kid sitting in the end booth in that damn cantina on Coruscant, about to get himself into a bar-room brawl with some smartass comment, because he never could keep his mouth shut.

"You know me, Han, I never go looking for trouble."

"Well then it'd be good if just occasionally, when it zeroed in on you yet again, you tried—just for the hell of it—backing off."

"Backing off." Lips twitching in a brief, teasing grin, Luke rolled the words around in his mouth as if they were completely alien. "Yeah…I can't see that happening. Not when I still need to track down the holocrons."

"What d'you need 'em for now, anyway?"

"I need to make sure he stays dead." Luke looked down as he tripped over the last word, deeply uneasy, then pushed quickly forward. "I need the holocrons for that. Shira Brie will probably withdraw back to Fondor, with what's left of the fleet. That's where she has most influence. If she wants to take power, that's where she'll start." He turned, sharp eyes holding his sister's. "She's your problem to deal with. Sooner rather than later, I'd suggest."

"Your help would—"

"You don't need it," Luke said quickly, then glanced away.

Still trying his damndest to keep out of the war, Han realized. Though even when he did, the kid's every action had huge repercussions, it seemed. And he knew it—tried his hardest to walk lightly.

Leia had told Han a while back that there were once such things as Dark Jedi—Jedi who had fallen from the path but had stopped themselves short of actually turning. Could there be the same for Sith—Sith who hovered close to the Light?

"I need to track down the holocrons," the kid repeated decisively. "I need to do it now. I know there's a species out beyond the Rim who Palpatine had contact with; certain of their leaders who he trusted—maybe enough to consign the holocrons to, for safekeeping. I still have authorization codes that should ensure me passage inside their system." He glanced to the _Falcon_. "And a fast ship."

A trickle travelled up Han's spine. "Wait a minute," he murmured. "You're gonna _ask_ for 'em first though, aren't you?"

"I'm not exactly a natural negotiator…but then neither are they, by all accounts," Luke said easily; replying and avoiding as ever, as he turned to walk towards the _Falcon_. "See you around. Maybe."

Han stared at the receding figure, thinking of all that the eighteen year old kid had been through in the last few months. Thinking of the number of times he'd watched him walk coolly to face Palpatine in the past, knowing that he was about to endure hard retribution. If there was one thing that Luke Antilles could do, it was walk calmly to his fate—even if it might be lethal.

"Luke!" Han set forward, but the kid was already in the _Falcon_ , the throaty roar as her engines shifted momentum drowning out Han's voice as the freighter lifted immediately, hatch still closing.

So all he could do in the end was watch the battered freighter rise, rippling the air about her in a heat-haze as she dipped to realign her course, then transferred power to her massive rear engines. With a brief buck they fired and flared, as the ship disappeared into a pinprick in the dusky evening sky.

Coming up beside him, Leia gave voice to her own twitching nerves. "He'll be okay, right?"

"Him? Yeah," Han murmured, eyes on that shrinking speck. "It's whatever gets in his way I'm worried about."

Leia turned. "Do you think he knows what he's doing, going after the holocrons?"

Han stared at the empty sky a moment longer before draping an arm about Leia's shoulder to walk her from the empty clearing towards the Rebel-issue shuttle. "I dunno. But I'll tell you what I do know. You remember when he said he didn't go looking for trouble…he lied."

.

.

.

۰ _ **FIN**_ ۰

.

.

 **·◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇·  
**

.

Or rather, TO BE CONTINUED...

Yes, there'll be a third and final part to the Empire's Son trilogy. If you'd like to see a little teaser, click on to the next chapter, where there's an excerpt from Empire's Son III

 **·◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇·**

As ever, I'd like to put out a whopping great heap of thanks to all those who posted reviews, week in week out. It is, believe me, the only reason that I keep on setting out on these marathon writing treks.  
Thank-you :)  
.

 **·◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇·**

.

Blank.

.

.


	35. Chapter 35

**·◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇·  
**

.

Okay, here we go, as ever, I've picked out a brief excerpt from the next (and final!) story in this Empire's Son trilogy

Guess who's coming...  
.

 **·◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇**

.

.

.

.

.

Two armed guards before and behind him, Luke was shown to a large, circular waiting room with a clear lantern to the center of its ceiling, through which Nirauan's night sky was a dim black blanket. The room itself was sparsely furnished and barely lit, the only illumination limited to soft pools angled towards the many pieces of art hung on the walls.

Left alone, he glanced about, thoughts taken instantly back to the galleried walls of the Red Room in his quarters in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant…and felt a pang of emptiness bloom in the center of his chest. Not a desire to return to those times—not at all—but regret for how he'd so completely destroyed his life every single day since.

His gaze had come to rest on a big canvas on the far side of the room, a baleful synthesis of dark blues and blacks which somehow reminded him of one that had hung in Palpatine's private study. As he moved across the room some unseen system triggered stronger lights to illuminate each canvas he neared, dimming again as he passed, until only the huge inky-black canvas remained lit, the gesso that had been used to prime the surface laid so thick as to form ridges beneath thickly-daubed paint, a hidden labyrinthine tangle highlighted by the angle of the light. He stopped, tipping his chin down, trying not to look at it…but his eyes were drawn back as he scowled, ill at ease…

He was aware that his response to art had always been visceral. In a life where every thought in every mind was laid bare to be read like a book, the silent subtleties that coaxed toward their own unraveling had always drawn him in, the tone of a single piece able to inspire or stifle his disposition for hours.

He stared, head tilting, pulled back to another time and place… Breha Organa, the woman who had raised him as her son, the only mother he'd ever known. The woman whom Palpatine had ordered killed in front of him when he was eleven. She had loved art, he remembered that. Had wanted her son to feel the same… _'Promise me you'll always do this, promise me you'll always draw.'_

Alone, hearing her words, her tone, her warmth, with painful clarity, Luke stared at the dark canvas, dragged down into its dense shadows…

Frowning, he shook his head briefly, voice a whisper. "Not here."

The huge canvas seemed to grow in his vision, as if reaching out to him. "No, you're wrong, it doesn't. It's not the same."

He blinked quickly, shaking his head. "Just stop. Stop. I w—"

He broke off as the door behind him slid aside and a man walked in, the pace of his footsteps purposeful. Luke turned—

And let out a quiet breath in shock. Not at the man who stood before him—he'd seen other blue-skinned, luminescent red-eyed Chiss on his way to this chamber—but at the soft, blank void that unfurled invisibly into the room about him, making him feel that he'd been immersed in a dense, dampening fog.

Ysalamiri; lots of them, all brought close outside of this room in unison, their combined influence cutting him off from the Force entirely. That was the only thing he knew that could void the Force like this. They could be a level below him, outside the walls of the chamber…possibly on the open roof above. If it was meant to unsettle him, it was wasted; he'd spent years loading his system with ever more exotic spice to achieve the same result. Being without the Force didn't compromise him.

"General Antilles," Grand Admiral Thrawn spoke in cool, crisp tones, all-red eyes narrowed in study as he walked forward, alone.

"The ysalamiri won't stop me," Luke said without preamble.

Thrawn tilted his head, tone cordial. "From doing what, exactly?" Those blood-red eyes held on Luke, unsettling not in their color but because they had no discernible iris, so that Luke was uncertain where exactly his focus lay.

Still, he held his gaze as Thrawn closed, the pure white of his immaculate Imperial admiral's uniform almost glowing in the dimly-lit room, his demeanor innately self-possessed, utterly confident, the merest tinge of curiosity visible in the tilt of his head. Uncomfortable with being the object of interest and wishing to keep this short, Luke glanced meaningfully at that Imperial insignia on Thrawn's chest.

"I have a code to quote to you. Vertex nine-nine-six-two-gotal-epsilon."

Not a single wrinkle marred the smooth blue skin around those searching eyes. "Hand codes seem a little obsolete, when the man they served is dead."

"Then why are you still wearing the uniform of his military?" Luke countered. "Or did you pull it out and dust it off whilst my ship was setting down on your landing pad?"

"The Empire remains…albeit leaderless."

Luke felt a twitch at the edge of his lip. "Hearing a calling?"

"At this time, no," Thrawn countered, glancing to the canvas on the wall. "I see you're appreciating my art collection."

"I'm simply looking at it," Luke said, aware that he was being led. "It's difficult not to, when there's nothing else in the room."

Thrawn moved to stand close, surprisingly trusting to Luke's opinion, since the lightsaber at his belt hadn't been confiscated…yet. He was tall—but then many were taller than Luke, at just eighteen—and he stood very deliberately straight, the line of his chin and the set of his mouth coolly aloof, arrogant even. Though if he was as good as the high-level intel files that Luke had read two years ago, stored in Palpatine's private vault on Coruscant, it wasn't without reason.

By comparison Luke was very much aware that he probably looked like nothing, his skin pale, eyes sunken so dark that that they looked bruised, his unkempt hair too long, his clothes crumpled. He didn't care. He doubted that it would influence this man's assessment of him, and had no interest in playing games.

Thrawn, it seemed, didn't share the opinion, eyes roving the dark painting before them. "There's so much one can learn, from a piece of art. Don't you agree?"

Luke ground his jaw a fraction. But he was here to gain something, and the easiest way was to ask…first. So he glanced back to the canvas. "It depends on the piece of art."

"Indeed it does," Thrawn allowed, gaze travelling over the massed pieces…and coming to rest on Luke; he could feel it quite distinctly, even without the Force.

Luke's eyes narrowed a fraction, jaw tightening as the comprehension slowly came that the art in this room had been carefully chosen to provoke a response. In him _specifically_.

He folded his arms, annoyed that he was forced to look up to meet Thrawn's eye, beginning to realize that the Admiral's proximity had also more than likely been a calculated act. "Do you intend to honor the Hand code or not?"

Thrawn paused a moment, then granted probably the most honest exchange he'd given thus far. "The matter is…under consideration."

" _Consider_ that you're wearing an Imperial uniform, and I've just quoted a privileged code issued by the Emperor himself."

"Which bought you the right to stand here," Thrawn said. "It bought you my attention.… Brought you _to_ my attention."

Thrawn allowed himself several more seconds of close examination…then surprised Luke as he tilted his head a fraction, tone conciliatory. "Indulge me. It's surely what you came here intending to do…otherwise given your modus operandi, you would have bypassed this conversation entirely. It so also implies that you consider our goals to be at least partially aligned."

Those last words sounded suspiciously like Thrawn too had an objective, here. Luke remained still, freshly wary of the presence of the unseen ysalamiri not just in terms of his narrowed ability to react to unexpected events, but also his inability to read Thrawn, in order to predict them.

"I am not your enemy, General Antilles," Thrawn assured smoothly. "And you are not mine."

"Then why the ysalamiri?"

"The ysalamiri enable us to meet as allies, on level ground. You surely understand my need for that? I simply wish to guarantee that this remains an amicable meeting."

"That's very much up to you."

"If you have a request to put forward, then I will certainly consider it. However, I'd assume that an operative of your level would have done their homework before coming here, General Antilles. You would therefore know that we Chiss are analytical by nature. We do not make hasty or impulsive decisions."

"I would have considered the decision made when you first chose to put on that uniform."

Thrawn smiled thinly, and looked again to the huge, dark canvas before him. "The Emperor was a great collector of art in all its facets. He himself presented me with this piece when I agreed to command a task force beyond recognized Imperial borders, on his command. It was one of a series of paintings by the artist Tetsuna. Palpatine owned both this and its sister-piece, and I had always admired them. Tetsuna came from the Lake Country on Naboo, close to the Emperor Palpatine's ancestral home."

"I'm not interested in the paintings," Luke said, unwilling to look at the piece again, uncomfortably aware now of just why exactly it had drawn him in.

"But you should be, General Antilles. Art tells so much of the mindset of the people of its region…as well as the man who collected it, if you know how to unravel its intricacies. To truly appreciate art, one must bring all one's faculties to bear."

"This isn't art—not to you. You have no appreciation of it, no sense of what it's trying to communicate."

"On the contrary, enlightened eyes can often see more than was ever intended."

Luke shook his head, unimpressed. "I know what you think you can achieve, with your directed study of a species' art, your _pragmatic_ formula."

As much as Thrawn had clearly read intel files on Luke, Luke had been force-fed the same on Thrawn whilst still on Coruscant, in his Master's service. Palpatine had long held that exceptional allies could so easily become dangerous adversaries. "You believe you can read art like a textbook. That you can drain it of knowledge without giving even a fraction of yourself to the experience. You don't want to hear what it's saying or experience a connection. You don't care that this is someone's soul. You see the frame, not the art. You—"

He broke off, chiding himself for being so easily led into voicing his distaste at the knowledge that he too was here to be read, like the rest of the artifacts in this room. He needed to get a hold of himself; he was out of practice.

Thrawn smiled gamely. "I disagree."

"You can't predict an entire society's mindset through their art."

The Admiral turned a fraction, still utterly sure of his view but enjoying the conversation. "And your basis for that assertion?"

Luke hesitated a moment, surprised at being called on this, of all things. But Thrawn only stared, waiting, that neutral expression and sense of quiet superiority reminding Luke far too much of others in his recent past.

Chin lifting a fraction, he held his ground. "Artists are more likely to exist on the fringes of their society. Art is usually produced by those who feel they are in some way on the outside of whatever culture they originate from. That's why they feel the need to produce art—they're searching for words when none exist in the common lexicon."

"So you believe all art is fundamentally an expression of frustration and isolation."

"How many pieces have you seen that are trying to communicate inner peace? Of those that do, how many are doing so as a direct contrast—internal or external—to chaos and despair."

"And a portrait?"

"Is seldom art for art's sake. It's a commission. A way to eat."

"And a portrait of the artist's lover?"

"Is a desperate need to preserve a moment they know can't and won't last."

Thrawn stared, that enigmatic half-smile perfectly held. Luke clamped his jaw, aware that to give any justification would only validate the man's suspicions that he had uncovered some vital truth. Perhaps he had.

Eventually Thrawn turned slowly back to the canvas, voice neutral. "We at least agree that whatever their focus, each piece is a mine of secrets to be fathomed and deciphered."

"Art isn't a mystery to be solved—that's not how it works. You're looking for something that's not there. It's communion, contact. It's a dialogue, not a dictionary."

Thrawn lifted his chin a fraction, those sharp eyes studying Luke closely. "You're something of an artist yourself, I understand."

"No," Luke said flatly. "Not at all."

"On the contrary, I have several of your sketches—or images of them, at least; they were hardly transportable. Older ones, from the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. A few from the Winter Palace. They were quite accomplished—and so very expressive."

Luke narrowed his eyes, again made aware that something bigger was going on here. "Why?"

"I told you, I have an interest in art."

"It wasn't art."

"The definition of art throughout most civilized societies has often been a fascinating point of contention. My own interests remain the same, regardless of the name society chooses to give such things. You just said yourself that art is, at its most basic, an expression. Of the artist, of his account of and relation to the society that he inhabits—of life, of hope, of despair. One peels back the layers and learns its language. That which the artist wished to impart, that which he wished to consider for himself…that which he wished to remain hidden."

Luke twitched beneath his skin…but held an indifferent front. "I think you may be reading too much into a bored teenager with a stolen stylus and a destructive streak."

"May I ask why exactly the stylus was stolen—why you felt the need to give emphasis to that one fact?"

Luke took a step back, enforcing distance. "You need to get out more."

"And now you're trying to alienate me, to cover your slip."

This time Luke simply stared, unwilling to give this man any more.

Thrawn let the silence hang too long…before breaking into that crisp, empty smile. "I do, however, agree with your assertion that finished pieces intended for sale tell far less of the inner psyche of the individual than rough sketches made at random. Finished art is an essay for mass consumption. Sketches are the musings of a mind."

When Luke still didn't take the bait, Thrawn shrugged, then turned away. "To speak with the originator of any piece which I hold is a rare opportunity, indeed. I would very much enjoy a discussion of your…work, at some point."

The temptation to ask what exactly Thrawn held burned…but Luke stilled his tongue. Blood red eyes turned to hold steady on him, but eventually Thrawn realized that the question wouldn't yet be forced, and so he turned aside to walk across the center of the room towards the door they'd both entered through—the only space that Luke had not looked at, the entrance to his back and its artwork unlit. Thrawn slowed, his proximity triggering the system to light the large canvas there.

"I particularly like this piece. I had it pulled from storage when you contacted us. A Capellan artist, named—"

"Oridago." There was the slightest tremor in his voice as Luke spoke, but Thrawn clearly heard it. He smiled, turning back from the artwork as Luke walked forward, drawn toward the canvas without even realizing it.

"Ah, you remember. I admit, I was unfamiliar with the language or style, when I acquired it—unaware that it was stylized calligraphy, and not abstract. Even when I realized, Capellan is so rare that I was forced to use a translator to decipher the meaning of the script…"

Luke was barely listening, his attention on the huge, fast-drawn scrawl of moss-green, three interlocked symbols rendered one almost entirely over the other, so kinetic that the canvas barely seemed to hold them. "Seek Solitude."

His world had already begun to crumble by the time Luke had hung that canvas on the wall of his quarters in the Imperial Palace. Beaten bloody and bruised by Palpatine for…some perceived failing; they all merged into one, he remembered sitting straight-backed on the bare floor before the massive canvas, broken ribs beginning to stiffen as Han had sat tentatively beside him. Remembered in acute detail his discussion with Han, neither of them taking their eyes from the painting.

 _"It's perfect. It's…expansive. Makes you feel you can breathe deeply. Like you can open your ribcage up and breathe."  
"Yeah?"  
"Yes…and now I've made a mark on it."  
_He had; two small, bloody handprints, where he'd lifted it to be hung. But Han had always known what to say, even then; known how to disperse the darkness. _  
"See, I thought they were meant to be there."  
_ Luke remembered smiling; it had hurt. _"Very existential."_

He blinked away the memory, only now realizing that he'd crossed the space to halt before the canvas. Angry at his own reaction on seeing it hung before him now, he flicked his head, almost shaking it, ordering himself to the present.

He'd come halfway across the galaxy and seen the Sith Master who had shaped and mis-shaped him die twice, between then and now. Amazing, how some things never changed. "Who was providing you with images of the walls of my rooms?"

Thrawn's eyes hadn't once yet looked to the canvas, remaining always on Luke. "Such an evocative piece."

"It's a fake."

"And here I thought that perhaps you simply hung your walls with color and borrowed artistic kudos. But no," He nodded, all-red eyes fixed with smug satisfaction. "You understood."

Again Luke ground his jaw at being laid bare. "I simply know his signature."

"The signature is an accurate copy, General Antilles. And the piece is an excellent forgery of the original you held, in every way. You know his _art_. You know his hand. You know his mind."

"I also know that the original had handling marks to the edges of two sides. You could have had them professionally removed, I suppose, but I actually think you would have preferred them to remain."

Luke fell silent, staring at Thrawn, aware from that curious gaze that he'd finally scored a hit of his own. But of course the man was too practiced to give ground, instead turning to the canvas, that ghost of a superior smile remaining. "Tell me, as one aficionado of art to another, what do you see?"

Luke didn't look. It took too much, held too many memories that burned. "What I see is irrelevant. You can't judge art by what another sees. That's technique. Art is what it means to you."

"What it means to me—" A pause, as those knowing red eyes returned to him. "Is a way to see into you."

Steeling himself, Luke glanced to the canvas without letting a single muscle in his face move, before looking quickly to the ground. "I see a closed door."

Thrawn was still watching him. "Oridago was little known at the time. He'd never sold a piece beyond his own planet. It would have required extensive research and effort, to source this piece. Clearly it was once something that you valued very much."

"I lost everything I valued. Looking at a poor forgery won't bring it back."

"I don't believe that you ever sought out this piece for its monetary value—quite the opposite, I think. You speak of messages, of connecting with the meaning of the art…" Thrawn paused, head tilting. "Do you wish me to continue?"

"I came for Palpatine's holocrons," Luke said, unwilling to let this progress any further. "Do you have them or not?"

That superior smile held intact on an utterly unreadable face. "I apologize, General Antilles—I'm making you uncomfortable."

"No, you're simply wasting my time."

"It's more than four months since Palpatine's death onboard the Death Star at Rhen Var…and now a few minutes of cordial conversation are too great?"

"Do you have them or not?"

"Tell me how the Emperor died."

The words—the broadside that Luke had been expecting since he'd arrived here—still held the power to stop him in his tracks, freezing him to the spot. Unthinking, his gaze went back to that huge brooding canvas to the far side of the room, whose inky tones swallowed the dim light cast on it, a skin of baleful hues masking the chaos of raised ridges and rifts beneath. And the longer he stared, the more the dense color crawled on the canvas, overrunning his senses, drawing him in.

Thrawn watched, waiting, red eyes fixed in silent study…

.

.

.

.

.

 **·◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇·  
**

.

There you go, that's it for now. Everyone's back next story-hope you'll watch out for it :)

Blank  
.

 **·◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇◊◇·**

.

.

.

.


End file.
